WOKTHLEt  UNDERWOOD 


1 


UBRAftY 

UMVFF?&1TYOF 
CALIFOftmA 

SAN  D(£QO 


4? 

SK 


presented  to  the 

LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  •  SAN  DIF.GO 

by 
FRIENDS  OF  11  IF,  LIBRARY 


MR.   JOHN  C.   ROSE 


donor 


THE  WHIRLWIND 


"We  must  not  be  serious,  you  and  I, 
We  must  be  only  happy." 


See  page  V5 


THE  WHIRLWIND 


WITH  A  FRONTISPIECE 
BY 

WILLIAM  A.  KIRKPATRICK 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1918 
BY  SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 


DEDICATED  TO  MY  MOTHER 
ALICE  HOWARD  WORTHLEY 


".  .  .  ye  live  on  ye  mighty  ones, 
Upon  rebellion  fed  and  bitter  wars, 
Ye  heroes  great  of  heart  —  of  Catherine." 

PUSHKIN, 
"Memories  of  Czarskoe  Selo." 


"Fortunate  the  one  who  shall  tell  within  a  century  the  story  of  Cath- 
erine the  Great." 

VOLTAIRE. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    THE  CONCERT i 

II    THE  INTERVIEW 24 

III  NICHOLAS  MURIEVICH,  GREEK  MUSICIAN  AND  PA- 

TRIOT,    AND     CATHERINE     ALEXEVNA,     GRAND 
DUCHESS  OF  RUSSIA  —  THEIR  LETTERS    ...     34 

IV  NICHOLAS  MURIEVICH,  GREEK  MUSICIAN  AND  PA- 

TRIOT,    AND     CATHERINE     ALEXEVNA,     GRAND 
DUCHESS  OF  RUSSIA  —  MORE  LETTERS    ...     76 

V    NIGHT  IN  THE   PORCELAIN   SALON  —  THE   IVORY 

VENUS ' 91 

VI  ORLOV 114 

VII  THE  FATAL  NIGHT  AT  ORANIENBAUM  .     .     .     .140 

VIII  THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  BALL 154 

IX  THE  MASKED  BALL 187 

X  MUHR'S  ON  THE  MORSKOI 219 

XI  CLOSE  OF  THE  NIGHT 242 

XII  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  AN  EMPEROR 261 

XIII  "THE  UNDERTAKING  OF  MONSIEUR  ORLOV"  .     .  275 

XIV  THE  LAST  NIGHT 283 


THE  WHIRLWIND 


THE  WHIRLWIND 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   CONCERT 

The  old  wooden  Anicza  Palace  stood  in  a  pale,  faded 
garden  which  occupied  the  space  where  later  rose  the 
Alexander  Theater  and  the  Public  Library.  On  one  side  a 
little  river  bordered  it  and  the  Czernisev  Pond,  both  exten- 
sions of  the  far  Finnish  Gulf  and  the  dull,  sluggish  Arctic 
waters.  The  Grand  Duke  was  giving  a  concert  in  honor 
of  the  departure  of  the  famous  violinist,  Nicholas  Murie- 
vich,  in  order  to  gratify  his  own  passion  for  music  in  per- 
mitting himself  the  pleasure  of  listening  to  him  again. 
And  he  was  killing  two  birds  with  one  stone,  so  to  speak, 
by  celebrating  at  the  same  time,  on  this  November  eve- 
ning, the  twentieth  anniversary  of  the  accession  to  the 
throne  of  his  aunt,  the  blessed  Empress,  Elizabeth  Pe- 
trovna.  By  his  express  order,  inspired  by  the  frail  health 
of  her  Majesty,  the  guests  and  members  of  the  court 
had  assembled  early.  And  among  the  guests,  by  some 
strange,  fleeting  caprice  of  the  unstable  imperial  host,  who 
was  moved  merely  by  willfulness,  there  were  a  goodly 
number  of  Russians  and  commoners  present,  as  if  the 
belated  idea  had  come  to  the  Grand  Duke  to  conciliate 
opponents  and  win  friends. 

When  the  guests  were  assembled,  the  voice  of  a  silver 
trumpet  suddenly  spread  silence  among  them,  announcing 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

the  approach  of  her  Majesty,  the  Empress.  At  the  south 
end  of  the  room  folding  doors  were  rolled  back,  and, 
across  the  polished  floor  of  the  great  salon  beyond,  a 
vision  drew  near.  Accompanied  on  each  side  by  three 
lackies  in  gorgeous,  glittering  uniforms,  each  upholding  a 
lighted  silver  candle  the  height  of  his  own  body,  walked 
Elizabeth  Petrovna,  a  woman  of  such  extraordinary 
beauty  that  at  first  sight  it  struck  the  observer  with  some- 
thing akin  to  surprise.  Because  of  illness,  she  was  not 
wearing  the  tightly  corseted  gown  of  the  day.  White 
satin,  like  a  church  stole,  hung  evenly  from  corsage  to 
floor,  unmarred  by  a  circling  line.  Her  arms  and  shoul- 
ders were  bare.  Inset  in  the  thick  satin,  as  if  in  resisting 
metal,  were  huge  sapphires,  huge  emeralds,  each  with  a 
tiny  rim  of  gold  about  it. 

This  encrustation  of  gems  reached  far  down  the  skirt, 
front  and  back,  and  finished  in  a  point.  Fabulous  pink 
pearls  swung  from  her  ears,  circled  her  neck,  and  hung 
in  long  ropes  from  her  shoulders.  Elizabeth  Petrovna 
was  tall  and  of  an  undreamed  of  perfection  of  line.  She 
had  large,  deep,  blue  eyes  lighted  by  an  enchanting  ex- 
pression of  love,  sweetness,  and  languor.  She  had  thick, 
curling  brown  hair  so  beautiful  that  a  court  hairdresser 
could  teach  it  no  new  grace;  a  mouth  whose  endearing 
sweetness  made  even  bitter  commands  seem  just;  hands 
and  arms  of  unexampled  perfection,  and  a  sort  of  daz- 
zling pallor  to  emphasize  eyes  and  hair.  Old  courtiers, 
who  had  seen  her  in  her  girlhood,  said  she  was  what  her 
father's,  Peter  the  Great's,  dream  of  a  perfect  woman 
might  have  been  in  the  days  of  his  own  youth.  To  ac- 
company all,  a  charm  of  voice  was  hers,  of  personality, — 
movement  —  that  might  not  be  resisted.  She  was  not 
only  the  loveliest  woman  in  Europe,  but  probably  the 
loveliest  that  ever  graced  a  throne.  She  was  only  in  the 

2 


THE  CONCERT 

early  forties  now.  Age  had  set  no  mark  upon  her.  But 
an  illness,  which  assured  speedy  death,  and  which  might 
not  be  mentioned,  had  heightened  her  beauty  and  lent  it 
a  sort  of  pitiful  and  tragic  power. 

She  slowly  crossed  the  great  glittering  room  of  the 
reflecting  floor  to  the  north  side,  where  a  thronelike  seat 
had  been  prepared  for  her.  As  she  walked  along,  with- 
out a  trace  of  self-consciousness  or  personal  superiority, 
glances  of  love  and  admiration  followed  her,  and  a  sort 
of  frightened  hush,  which  was  the  tribute  always  paid  by 
the  public  to  the  superlative  physical  perfection  of  Eliza- 
beth Petrovna. 

The  Grand  Duke  hastened  to  pay  his  respects  to  her. 

"  My  dear  Aunt,"  bowing  and  kissing  her  hand,  "  I  am 
flattered  that  you  should  honor  my  poor  concert  by  your 
presence.  I  never  saw  you  look  in  better  health  than  to- 
night —  I  rejoice  to  say." 

She  looked  down  from  her  regal  height  with  a  smile 
that  was  half  pity,  half  contempt,  but  altogether  tender, 
upon  the  poor,  thin,  ugly  body  and  almost  imp-like  face 
that  bent  before  her.  She  inclined  her  charming  head 
with  its  glistening  gems  near  his  ear  and  said  in  a  low  voice 
meant  only  for  him  to  hear: 

''  We  are  pleased,  my  dear  Nephew,  that  you  should 
remember  that  November  night  so  long  ago,  when  we 
did  something  which  we  hope  you  will  recall  often  in  the 
years  to  come;  something  that  will  be  of  benefit  to  you  — 
if  you  happen  to  rule  wisely." 

When  she  straightened  up  and  regained  her  former 
position,  there  were  white  dots  on  the  smooth  brow  and 
throat,  and  the  jewelled  hands  were  unsteady.  It  was 
evident  what  an  effort  the  least  motion  cost  her.  In 
the  deep  blue  eyes  —  for  a  moment  —  there  was  a 
hunted  look  of  fear  and  death. 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

The  Grand  Duke  made  way  for  the  Grand  Duchess, 
whom  he  did  not  feel  inclined  to  meet  face  to  face  or  to 
speak  with  just  now. 

The  handsome  Greek-Russian  violinist,  Nicholas  Mu- 
rievich,  who  was  watching  the  scene  from  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  was  surprised  to  find  that  the  Grand  Duchess, 
whom  he  had  thought  a  tall  woman,  was  really  short 
when  she  drew  near  Elizabeth  Petrovna. 

Then  he  saw  that  she  was  not  even  majestic,  but  that 
she  gave  the  impression  of  both  height  and  majesty  be- 
cause she  was  upheld  by  an  inflexible  will. 

The  new  favorite,  Count  Ivan  Shuvalov,  who  accom- 
panied Elizabeth  Petrovna  everywhere,  drew  nearer  as 
he  saw  the  Grand  Duchess.  She  bent  low  before  the 
Empress  and  kissed  her  hand. 

"  Most  Gracious  Majesty,  I  cannot  tell  you  what  pleas- 
ure it  gives  me  to  see  you  again !  It  is  months  since  I 
have  had  that  pleasure.  Will  your  Gracious  Majesty 
not  permit  me  to  see  you  in  private  in  a  few  days  where 
we  can  converse  as  we  used  to?  Believe  me,  not  to  see 
you  oftener  is  my  greatest  grief." 

Elizabeth  Petrovna  became  white  as  the  satin  of  her 
stole.  She  looked  at  Count  Shuvalov  as  if  to  beg  his  in- 
tercession and  smiled  that  smile  of  indescribable  and 
caressing  sweetness. 

"  Your  Royal  Highness,"  explained  Count  Shuvalov, 
"  the  November  night  is  peculiarly  oppressive,  as  you  your- 
self have  just  remarked, —  and  the  heat  of  all  these 
candles  —  and  the  crowd  —  make  her  Majesty  feel  faint. 
At  another  time  in  the  evening  she  will  answer  you." 

When  Nicholas  Murievich  saw  her  move  away  unac- 
companied by  any  of  the  courtiers,  he  knew  that  the 
Empress  had  refused  again  her  request  for  an  interview. 

"  Do  you  see  that  handsome,  black  Greek  down  there 

4 


THE  CONCERT 

—  the  famous  violinist  —  your  Majesty?  "  whispered  the 
ever  mischief-making  Shuvalov,  hastily. 

The  Empress  looked  as  he  directed. 

"  There  is  a  report,  your  Majesty,  that  the  Grand 
Duchess  is  in  love  with  him.  Not  a  thing  is  known  defi- 
nitely —  no  fact  —  but  I've  heard  it  hinted.  They  say 

—  they  say  —  he  is  her  lover." 

Elizabeth  Petrovna  paid  no  attention  to  his  words. 
The  sins  of  love  were  never  very  important  sins  to  her. 
A  sin,  in  her  opinion,  was  something  altogether  different. 
It  was  an  intrigue,  a  plotted  act  of  malice  against  the  reign 
and  command  of  her  all-powerful  self.  Besides,  in  the 
crowd  that  was  constantly  swaying  and  increasing  in 
front  of  her,  she  saw,  making  his  way  toward  her,  her 
morganatic  husband  and  former  favorite,  Count  Alexis 
Razumovsky.  He  still  lived  in  the  white  house,  which 
she  had  given  him,  adjoining  the  palace,  in  the  Anicza 
Garden.  This  turned  her  thoughts  in  a  quite  different 
direction.  At  a  sign  from  her,  Count  Ivan  Shuvalov 
drew  back.  The  man  who  approached  was  tall,  slender, 
and  as  supple  and  dark  as  an  Oriental.  He  had  the 
appearance  of  great  age,  but  he  was  really  only  in  the 
early  fifties.  He  still  showed  the  marks  of  a  rich,  semi- 
oriental  beauty,  which  in  the  past  must  have  equalled  that 
of  Elizabeth  Petrovna  herself.  His  face  was  furrowed 
now  and  marked  with  dissipation  and  uncontrolled  emo- 
tions. His  dull,  black  eyes  were  so  weary  that  they  had 
become  sad  and  indifferent.  They  looked  out  upon  a 
world  that  for  him  had  died.  Indian  sapphires  hung 
from  his  ears.  Purple-black  sapphires  marked  his  thin, 
long,  fingered  hands,  and  all  the  orders  of  Russia  blazed 
upon  his  breast.  Count  Alexis  Razumovsky  kissed  her 
hand  with  an  emotion  so  deep  he  could  not  speak.  Then, 
he  took  his  place  proudly  beside  her  with  his  back  turned 

5 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

toward  Count  Shuvalov  who  had  wisely  retreated  some 
distance.  Side  by  side  under  the  crystal  chandelier  they 
stood,  towering  above  the  other  guests,  the  two  finest 
physical  specimens  of  that  old  Muscovite  Russia  that 
had  passed  away. 

"  This  day,  each  year,  your  Majesty,  I  keep  like  a  holy 
day."  His  voice  trembled.  Elizabeth  Petrovna's  mind 
turned  swiftly  back  toward  the  past.  And  what  a  past 
it  was  that  swept  like  a  whirlwind  through  her  brain,  at 
sound  of  that  weary  voice,  that  had  once  whispered  pas- 
sionate words  of  love  to  her !  The  eyes  of  all  the  guests 
were  taking  frequent  and  surreptitious  glances  at  the 
pair,  and  enjoying  the  'evident  discomfiture  of  Count 
Shuvalov.  It  needed  only  a  word,  only  a  gesture  from 
one  to  the  other,  between  these  two,  to  recall  dramatic 
incidents  of  their  glowing  years  of  life  together,  when  the 
income  of  half  the  world  had  been  theirs  to  squander. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  golden  cross  we  placed  on 
the  top  of  the  Cathedral  of  the  Resurrection  in  Mos- 
cow?" he  whispered,  when  controlled  emotion  and  a 
little  white  lozenge  he  had  swallowed  permitted  calmer 
speech. 

"And  the  little  white  house  in  the  Pokrova  Street?" 

Elizabeth  Petrovna  did  remember  very  well.  In  that 
little  house  she  had  married  —  morganatically  —  Count 
Alexis  Razumovsky.  And  in  honor  of  the  event  she 
had  placed  a  crown  of  gold  upon  the  Church  of  the 
Resurrection,  where  Razumovsky  had  once  been  a  choir 
boy. 

"  And  the  little  village,  Alexandrovsky  —  the  church 
there  —  Alexis  Gregorovich  ?  "  she  replied,  with  a  gayer 
smile  than  was  customary  now.  In  this  little  village  she 
had  dressed  as  a  boy  and  had  sung  in  the  boys'  choir 
with  Razumovsky.  This  was  the  way  that  they  first  met. 

6 


THE  CONCERT 

Ah !  what  a  life  followed  this !  She  drew  a  long  breath 
of  regret  and  remembered  joy.  When  they  first  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes  —  in  that  little  village,  Alexandrov- 
sky  —  one  day  after  the  church  service  was  over  and  they 
were  alone, —  it  was  just  as  if  they  had  always  known 
each  other,  even  from  the  beginning  of  time.  It  was 
as  if  there  were  no  barriers  between  them,  no  obstacles. 
It  was  as  if  they  rushed  each  to  the  other,  like  waves  that 
the  winds  drive,  which  have  no  will. 

"And  the  fairs,  Alexis  Gregorovich?  "  the  voice  was 
strong  and  vibrant  now  as  the  voice  of  her  youth. 

"  That  was  life,"  he  sighed,  as  his  thin  hands,  on  which 
the  huge  sapphires  shone  like  the  purple  midnights  of 
the  past,  sought  again  the  lozenge  box. 

In  those  days  Elizabeth  Petrovna  was  in  hiding  from 
the  envious  wrath  of  Anna  Leopoldovna  who  was  reign- 
ing Empress.  She  wore  her  brown,  thick  curls  short 
like  a  boy.  She  was  slender  and  tall  as  a  pine  tree.  In 
boy's  disguise  no  one  knew  her.  She  and  Alexis  Ra- 
zumovsky  went  about  to  the  great  fairs  of  central  Russia 
singing  and  dancing  —  and  gayly  taking  the  money  they 
earned.  Her  dancing  had  been  a  marvel  of  grace  and 
skill. 

Then,  came  Little  Russia  and  the  south.  They  lived 
among  the  peasants.  She  could  ride  the  wildest  steed  of 
the  steppe  as  well  as  any  Cossack  from  the  Dnieper. 
Or,  she  played  the  balalaika  for  his  singing — if  the 
weather  was  warm, —  and  they  wandered  on  foot  from 
village  to  village  and  the  peasants  feted  them. 

"  Power  can  never  equal  a  life  like  that !  "  she  ex- 
claimed with  conviction,  in  the  old  voice  he  used  to  know, 
without  troubling  however  to  communicate  to  him  di- 
rectly the  thought  that  prompted  what  she  said.  Her 
words  and  voice,  and  something  in  the  quick  turn  of  her 

7 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

head,  recalled  then  to  him  their  life  in  the  barracks, 
in  Moscow,  and,  later,  in  Petersburg,  when  they  had 
lived  as  boon  companions  with  the  soldiers.  And  what 
a  fine  appearing  soldier  she  had  been!  Everyone  had 
been  in  love  with  her.  When  she  looked  at  him,  it  was 
almost  with  surprise  at  not  finding  beside  her  the  fiery 
hearted  boy.  The  eyes  that  looked  back  at  her  were 
weary  and  exhausted.  The  old  blaze,  thatliad  swept  her 
into  oblivious  depths  of  passionate  and  emotional  living, 
and  made  the  forgetful  years  swirl  about  them  both 
unheeding,  like  dizzy  tops,  was  no  more. 

"  Our  conversation  must  not  delay  the  Grand  Duke's 
concert?  "  he  questioned,  in  the  silence  that  followed  that 
last  look  of  hers. 

She  did  not  dismiss  him  at  once.  She  faced  with 
a  supreme  indifference  the  stolen  glances  of  interest  and 
curiosity  turned  upon  them  from  moment  to  moment  by 
the  curious  crowd.  She  noticed  that  Count  Shuvalov 
was  talking  with  Lomonossov,  the  poet,  and  his  young 
protege,  Von-Visin,  across  the  room,  and  that  the  court 
was  enjoying  the  temporary  displacement  of  Count 
Shuvalov.  She  saw  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin,  the  prime 
minister,  enter  late,  a  thin,  black,  ominous  shadow.  She 
thought  how  she  disliked  him.  She  intercepted  a  look 
between  him  and  the  Grand  Duchess,  which  surprised 
her. 

"  I  wish,  Alexis  Gregorovich,"  she  exclaimed  in  the 
voice  he  used  to  love,  "  that  it  was  not  a  concert  of  court 
violinists  which  we  were  going  to  listen  to  to-night  to- 
gether, you  and  I,  but  instead  a  concert  of  nightingales  — 
Do  you  not  remember?  —  in  the  meadows  of  the 
Ukraine  in  that  old  scented  garden  of  the  south?  " 

The  last  words  were  said  with  an  underlying  meaning 
intended  only  for  him. 

8 


THE  CONCERT 

He  was  not  able  to  reply  immediately.  The  years 
that  lay  between  the  nightingales  and  the  violinists  marked 
that  thing  most  worthy  of  regret  —  the  vanishing  of 
youth. 

"  I  have  brought  your  Majesty  a  little  gift  for  to-night, 
to  mark  the  anniversary  of  your  reign,"  he  said,  ab- 
ruptly; then  paused  as  if  unable  to  go  on.  He  was  grop- 
ing in  the  inside  pocket  of  his  satin  court  coat,  groping 
with  the  shaking  fingers  of  an  old  man.  At  length  he 
found  it.  It  was  a  miniature  of  a  slender  young  girl, 
in  a  frame  of  plain,  beveled  gold.  Elizabeth  Petrovna 
took  it  in  the  safe  shelter  of  her  lace  handkerchief.  It 
showed  a  girl  of  some  eighteen  years.  She  had  pale 
gray  eyes,  golden  hair,  and  white,  fine,  patrician  features. 
The  picture  resembled  the  Empress  herself,  only  it  lacked 
her  fire,  vividness,  her  deep  rich  coloring.  It  was  a  pale, 
dull  copy. 

"  I  sent  to  Florence  to-night  —  to  be  given  to  her  in 
honor  of  you,  (It  was  worthy  of  remark  that  here  he  said 
not  your  Majesty,  but  you)  a  little  brooch  of  gold,  a 
reproduction  in  miniature  of  the  crown  which  you  placed 
upon  the  Cathedral  of  the  Resurrection  in  Moscow. 
But  I  did  not  tell  her!  "  he  added  in  a  significant  whisper. 
Count  Alexis  Razumovsky  bowed  reverently  and  moved 
away.  Elizabeth  Petrovna  scarcely  heeded  him.  She 
was  looking  —  within  the  safe  shelter  of  her  lace  hand- 
kerchief —  at  the  first  picture  she  had  ever  seen  of  the 
daughter  born  so  long  ago  to  her  and  Alexis  Razumov- 
sky. She  seated  herself  unsteadily  upon  the  raised  dais, 
which  was  the  signal  for  the  concert  to  begin  and  for 
no  one  else  to  be  presented  to  her.  Count  Shuvalov  did 
not  return  to  his  former  position  by  her  side.  His  subtle 
courtier's  instinct  told  him  that  it  would  be  best  not  to. 
Her  ladies-in-waiting  took  his  place. 

9 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

Nicholas  Murievich,  slender,  dark  and  young,  wearing 
a  court  suit  of  oyster-white  satin,  the  decorations  bestowed 
by  kings  for  his  music  glittering  upon  his  breast,  stepped 
forth  to  open  the  concert.  By  order  of  the  Grand  Duke 
he  played  a  selection  from  an  old  Italian  master.  And 
like  a  master  he  played  himself,  nobly,  vigorously,  sure  of 
technique.  To-night  he  was  less  absorbed  in  his  music 
and  its  success  than  usual.  The  thought  passed  through 
his  mind  repeatedly  of  the  futility  of  playing  to  this  crowd 
of  bored  and  blase  beings.  They  had  arranged  them- 
selves in  little  friendly  and  agreeable  groups  to  listen 
to  the  music.  He  saw  the  Grand  Duchess  with  her 
friend,  Princess  Dashkov,  and  Count  Shuvalov,  and  Leo 
Narishkin,  the  court  merrymaker.  Ah !  —  he  thought 
—  Shuvalov  knew  the  Empress  could  not  live  long  and 
he  would  not  mind  being  the  favorite  of  the  Grand  Duch- 
ess when  she  became  the  new  Empress ! 

Elizabeth  Petrovna  was  distrait  and  did  not  pay  at- 
tention to  what  was  being  played.  Her  thoughts  were 
turned  inward  upon  herself.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  be 
riveted  upon  the  lace  handkerchief  which  she  held  in  her 
lap.  Count  Alexis  Razumovsky,  who  was  a  musician 
himself  and  a  most  appreciative  listener,  had  gone.  He 
never  stayed  long  enough  to  be  numbered  among  the 
servile,  bowing  crowd  that  paid  respect  to  the  with- 
drawal of  Elizabeth  Petrovna  and  the  new  favorite.  Old 
Lomonossov  had  a  crowd  of  young  Russian  men  about 
him,  officers  and  scholars.  He  saw  the  tall,  thin-legged 
Dershawin,  boyish  Von-Visin,  and  the  black  eyed,  melan- 
choly face  of  young  Novikov,  both  incipient  poets.  Su- 
banski,  who  was  nicknamed  Adonis,  handsome  Gregory 
Orlov,  and  his  giant  brother,  Alexis,  whose  face  showed 
a  saber  wound  from  chin  to  ear,  were  frankly  bored. 

The  Grand  Duke  and  Elizabeth  Woronzov,  who  had 

10 


THE  CONCERT 

already  usurped  the  place  of  the  Grand  Duchess  in  the 
heart  of  the  Grand  Duke,  the  heir  apparent  to  the  throne, 
were  at  a  distance  from  the  others  and  alone.  Murie- 
vich  saw  the  Grand  Duke  signal  imperatively  to  her  to 
keep  still,  and  he  saw  his  ugly  insipid  face  change  from 
moment  to  moment  and  become  almost  fine  at  times,  as 
emotion  induced  by  the  music  moulded  it.  For  a  second 
number,  Nicholas  Murievich  played  a  composition  of 
his  own.  As  he  began  it,  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the 
Grand  Duchess  as  much  as  to  say  tnat  this  was  his  fare- 
well to  Russia,  and  to  her.  Elizabeth  Petrovna  felt 
some  fresh  emotion  in  the  music,  and  looked  up  quickly. 
Who  in  all  Europe  was  so  fitted  to  judge  of  the  things 
of  love  as  she?  She  saw  the  look  in  the  eyes  of  Nicholas 
Murievich  as  they  rested  upon  Catherine  Alexevna,  and 
the  whispered  words  of  Count  Shuvalov  occurred  to  her. 
Her  eyes  rested  rovingly  a  moment  upon  the  bent,  nar- 
row shouldered,  somewhat  helpless  figure  of  her 
nephew,  and  a  flitting  sense  of  pity  and  premonition  of 
future  possibilities  touched  her. 

Nicholas  Murievich  still  held  his  eyes  turned  in  the 
direction  of  Catherine  Alexevna,  and  it  occurred  to  him 
that  her  face  resembled  strangely  another  face  that  he 
had  seen  once  in  court  surroundings  just  like  this.  Where 
was  it?  Where  was  it?  And  whose  was  the  face? 
Ah !  —  he  knew  now !  A  happy  musical  phrase  had 
found  it.  She  resembled  Frederick  the  Great.  If  Fred- 
erick the  Great  and  she  were  of  the  same  age,  the  re- 
semblance would  be  truly  wonderful.  Here  was  the  same 
somewhat  long  chin,  a  similar  color  and  expression  of 
the  eyes.  And  the  thin  noses  were  very  similar.  In 
short,  there  was  that  peculiar  likeness  which  usually  means 
kinship  of  blood. 

But  Catherine  Alexevna  was  not  moved  by  his  music. 

II 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

She  was  less  moved  than  any  one  else  who  was  present. 
She  could  not  feel  it.  She  could  understand  only  the 
things  of  the  head,  not  the  heart.  She  did  not  know 
that  he  was  playing  to  her.  For  a  moment  he  was  sad; 
he  sensed  that  she  could  never  feel  any  purely  beautiful 
thing.  Then  he  remembered,  as  if  by  magic,  that  she 
could  not  learn  to  quote  correctly  a  single  line  of  poetry 
because  she  had  no  ear  for  rhythm.  What  was  it  then 
that  fascinated  him  so,  who  loved  music  above  every- 
thing? It  was  the  force  of  opposites.  It  was  some 
power  purely  physical,  the  attraction  of  antagonistic  en- 
tities. It  was  something  related  to  superabundant  vital- 
ity and  the  cold,  alien  powers  of  the  mind. 

But  the  Grand  Duke  understood  what  she  did  not. 
This  puzzling  man,  in  the  awkward,  unlovely  body,  whom 
he  himself  was  betraying  and  plotting  against,  was  the 
only  one  present  who  listened  to  great  music  like  a  con- 
noisseur. In  musical  comprehension  he  rose  head  and 
shoulders  above  them  all.  This  complex  and  doubtful 
self-questioning  was  audible  in  the  last  minor  notes  of 
his  playing  which  did  not  bring  the  quick  and  vigorous 
applause  which  was  usually  his.  He  sat  down  with  a 
futile  sense  of  falsity  and  failure. 

When  the  Grand  Duke,  who  came  next,  lifted  the 
violin  to  his  chin,  he  became  firm-bodied  and  commanding. 
The  shifting  gray  eyes,  that  looked  as  if  they  were  flecked 
with  fretful  tears,  were  stern  and  dominant.  With  a 
strong  arm  of  hate  he  cut  the  strings,  with  a  dash  of  fiery 
tone  that  cut  his  hearer's  hearts.  Again,  again,  that 
wound  of  sound,  until  the  room  was  emotionally  subdued. 
He  wielded  the  fiddle  bow  as  his  imperial  grandfathers, 
Peter  the  Great  of  Russia  and  Charles  XII  of  Sweden, 
had  wielded  the  baton  of  death  over  conquering  and 
triumphant  armies.  That  struggling,  timid,  shifting  na- 

12 


THE  CONCERT 

ture  of  his,  which  could  not  express  itself  in  words,  be- 
cause there  was  no  tongue  he  could  speak  well,  French, 
German,  Swedish  or  Russian,  and  call  his  own,  poured 
itself  out  through  the  medium  of  his  violin  in  a  torrent  of 
rage  and  revenge.  He  had  forgotten  all  about  his  audi- 
ence. What  did  they  matter?  From  the  height  upon 
which  he  was  standing  they  were  small  and  insignificant. 

The  blase  courtiers  became  uncomfortable.  Even  fat, 
phlegmatic  Panin,  who  never  arose  from  his  bed  before 
five  in  the  afternoon,  he  who  in  that  talkative,  sentimental, 
self-expressive  age  was  always  silent,  looked  up  with  a 
show  of  interest.  Old,  black-clad  Count  Bestushev- 
Rjumin,  of  the  deep  set,  cruel  eyes,  realized  that  there  was 
a  world  where  even  he  of  the  astute  and  wily  brain  would 
not  dare  measure  himself  with  the  Grand  Duke  whom  he 
did  not  hesitate  to  call  a  fool.  There  were  evidently 
other  worlds  besides  the  one  over  which  he  ruled  superbly. 
But  it  all  ended  with  the  last  stroke  of  the  bow.  Before 
them  stood,  then,  a  one-sided,  narrow-chested,  crumpled 
little  figure,  in  blue  coat,  white  trousers,  and  a  wig  too 
large  by  half  for  the  head  it  covered.  The  wig  shaded 
a  sharp  little  nose  that  stuck  out  like  the  snout  of  a 
weasel. 

The  Empress  arose.  There  was  a  rush  toward  well 
known  courtiers  of  people  who  wished  to  be  presented 
to  her.  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin  hastily  and  briefly  paid 
his  respects  to  her  and  moved  away.  Lomonossov  of 
the  great  burly  body  and  uncourtly  voice  besieged  Count 
Ivan  Shuvalov  to  present  to  her  his  two  young  friends, 
Von-Visin  and  Dershawin,  and  ask  her  Majesty  that 
they  might  have  some  appointment  to  help  support  them. 
Lomonossov  assured  him  that  they  would  be  writers  of 
whom  Russia  would  one  day  be  proud.  Count  Shuvalov 
would  not  even  listen,  and  old  Lomonossov  turned  away 

13 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

grumbling  as  usual,  declaring  that  everyone  had  a  chance 
in  Russia  except  the  Russians. 

The  ladies-in-waiting  signified  that  her  Majesty  would 
permit  no  one  else  to  be  presented  to  her.  The  Grand 
Duchess  started  toward  her  to  wish  her  good  night,  and 
again  to  ask  for  the  desired  interview.  When  she  was  a 
few  feet  from  her,  Count  Shuvalov  intercepted  her.  But 
for  an  instant's  space  these  two  women,  around  whom 
at  this  moment  the  Slavic  world  revolved,  stood  facing 
each  other  separated  by  only  a  few  feet  in  space,  in  a  sort 
of  imperial  isolation. 

The  scornful  Esterhazy,  who  had  the  subtle,  time-reg- 
istering eye  of  an  historian,  who  saw  them  across  the  shin- 
ing, smooth-floored  salon,  whispered  hastily  to  the  French 
Ambassador,  Marquis  de  1'Hopital:  "Look  —  see  the 
two  of  them  now!  One  represents  Byzantium  and  the 
East;  the  other  a  prosaic,  modern  world  soon  to  come." 

"  Observe  Lomonossov,  and  that  awkward,  brown- 
eyed,  moon-faced  boy  with  him  —  Von-Visin,"  whispered 
back  Marquis  de  1'Hopital,  delightedly.  "  Are  they  not 
two  polar  bears?  Do  you  know,  Esterhazy,  that  in  the 
souls  of  these  Russians  who  are  trying  so  hard  to  French- 
ify themselves  —  to  be  of  our  world  of  the  west  —  there 
is  something  vast  and  lonely,  and  that  can  not  be  dis- 
ciplined?" 

The  Empress  was  passing  them  now  on  her  way  to 
her  apartments,  followed  by  her  ladies-in-waiting  and 
Count  Ivan  Shuvalov  and  there  was  silence  and  reverently 
bowed  heads  as  she  moved  along.  After  the  great  south 
doors  closed  upon  the  departure  of  her  Majesty,  a  dif- 
ferent temper  was  felt  in  the  rooms.  The  Grand  Duke 
moved  about  nimbly  from  group  to  group.  He  was  in 
one  of  his  scornful,  tantalizing  moods.  His  sharp,  harsh, 


nasal  voice  was  heard  everywhere,  riding  upon  the  sur- 
faces of  other  voices  with  which  it  did  not  blend.  He 
stuck  the  sharp  prick  of  his  tongue  into  every  one  he  hated. 
And  in  the  words  he  uttered  there  was  a  peculiar  min- 
gling of  pure  foolishness,  inanity,  and  shrewd  penetration. 
Sometimes  this  unexpected  penetration  laid  bare  facts  so 
carefully  concealed  that  no  one  had  suspected  them. 

Gregory  Orlov,  tall,  handsome,  with  masses  of  golden, 
curling  hair,  his  superb  athletic  figure  buttoned  into  a 
tight  fitting,  braided  uniform,  was  talking  with  the  Grand 
Duchess.  He  was  trying  to  penetrate  beneath  the  jest- 
ing surface  of  her  conversation.  He  was  trying  to  make 
her  see  him,  the  man. 

"  Your  Royal  Highness,"  called  Gregory  Orlov  to  the 
Grand  Duke  who  happened  to  be  passing  near,  "  cannot 
the  Grand  Duchess  ever  be  serious?  " 

"Very  serious,  Orlov!"  was  the  quick  reply.  "She 
is  seriously  deceiving  you  and  me,  and  our  famous  violin- 
ist over  there,  all  at  one  time.  What  is  that  but  seri- 
ous?" 

On  past  them  his  one-sided  body  hopped,  like  a  petu- 
lant bird,  to  Lomonossov  and  the  Russians.  Into  them 
he  stuck  his  hateful  tongue  and  promised  to  import  some 
Prussians  who  would  teach  them  how  to  write  poetry. 

"  How  are  you,  Subanski?  How  are  you?  "  his  harsh 
voice  called  unexpectedly  from  another  part  of  the  room. 
"  I've  passed  you  two  or  three  times  to-night,  Subanski, 
but  I  did  not  speak  because  I  thought  that  you  were  just 
one  of  the  statues  brought  in  to  help  decorate  the  rooms." 

"  Good  evening,  Princess  Dashkov !  Good  evening. 
We  seldom  see  you  among  our  personal  friends.  I  sup- 
pose we  are  not  clever  enough  for  you." 

"  Good  evening,  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin,"  appearing 

15 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

as  if  by  magic  beside  the  Great  Chancellor.  "  Where  is 
our  faded  beau  and  beauty,  Razumovsky,  Count  Bestu- 
shev?" 

"  He  has  gone,  your  Royal  Highness." 

"  Ah !  —  Count  Bestushev  —  that  must  so  often  be  said 
about  old  men,"  not  attempting  to  veil  the  hatred  that 
rang  in  his  voice,  which  this  time  was  accompanied  by  a 
burst  of  shrill  and  foolish  laughter. 

The  Great  Chancellor  regarded  him  in  silent  disdain, 
making  no  attempt  to  measure  words  with  him. 

"  Ah-h-ha!  our  silent  Panin, —  who  plots  and  plans 
and  smiles  and  says  —  nothing." 

As  Catherine  Alexevna  watched  him  flutter  about  the 
gorgeous  room,  so  busily  devoted  to  creating  discomfort 
and  displeasure,  she  thought  that  in  just  this  way  he 
moved  across  the  gorgeous  pageant  of  the  age  —  like  a 
gray,  ungainly  phantom  of  unstable  smoke,  wavering, 
uncertain,  and  so  badly  fitted  into  his  visible  clothes  of 
flesh. 

The  guests  were  leaving.  They  were  eager  to  escape 
from  the  ill-tempered  mood  of  their  capricious  host. 

The  Petersburg  that  met  their  eyes  outside  on  this  sad 
November  midnight  was  a  veritable  ghost  of  a  city,  be- 
cause street  after  street  of  dwellings  was  covered  with 
raw,  unpainted  scaffolding  where  building  was  rapidly  go- 
ing on.  White  scaffolding  covered  the  entire  outside  of 
the  new  Winter  Palace  which  was  nearly  finished,  and  the 
great  Isaac's  Cathedral  which  was  being  rebuilt.  From 
the  soul-submerging,  semi-oriental  splendor  of  the  in- 
terior of  the  palace,  they  were  confronted  as  soon  as  they 
stepped  outside  the  door,  by  a  sad,  sullen,  sub-Arctic 
landscape,  where  nature  had  muted  her  joy,  and  which 
touched  them  to  silent  dismay.  Not  yet  did  the  streets 
of  this  pet  city  of  Peter  own  any  of  the  mysterious,  com- 

16 


THE  CONCERT 

plex  charm  of  other  world-cities,  which  made  life  here 
altogether  an  indoor  affair. 

Count  Bestushev-Rjumin  seized  the  moment  of  con- 
fusion caused  by  the  departure  of  the  guests  to  speak  a 
few  words  with  Catherine  Alexevna.  They  exchanged  at 
first  the  usual  commonplaces.  Then  he  became  silent 
and  fixed  his  deep-set  glowing  eyes  upon  her.  Slowly 
there  was  borne  in  upon  her  mind  a  conviction,  a  thought, 
that  he  knew  that  later  in  the  night  she  was  to  keep  an 
appointment  with  Nicholas  Murievich.  She  felt  that 
the  knowledge  displeased  him.  She  had  become  increas- 
ingly conscious  of  some  inexplicable  power  he  possessed 
of  divining  the  thoughts  of  other  people.  Over  that  cold 
mind  of  hers  he  had  some  influence  that  no  one  else  had 
ever  had,  and  which  she  herself  could  not  explain  or 
understand.  There  was  something  about  him  that  had 
the  power  to  negative  her  other  impulses. 

"  It  is  said,  Catherine  Alexevna,"  he  began  in  a  tone 
of  cold  displeasure,  "  that  November  is  an  unlucky  month 
—  a  month  in  which  especially  to  avoid  doing  unwise 
things."  He  looked  at  her  sidewise,  his  thin,  witch-like 
arms  folded  high. 

She  did  not  reply.  And  he  did  not  speak  again  at 
once ;  when  he  did,  it  was  to  remark  apparently  apropos 
of  nothing: 

"  By  marriage  —  if  not  by  blood  —  you  are  a  Roman- 
off, you  must  remember." 

Evidently  he  was  following  a  line  of  thought  known 
only  to  himself,  of  which  only  the  upper  edge  would  be 
made  visible.  Here  he  sighed  and  drew  a  deep  breath, 
and  then  seemed  to  make  an  effective  frame  out  of  the 
silence  that  followed  for  his  next  words,  to  which  he  was 
slow  to  give  utterance. 

"  November !     Ah !  —  what  have  they  not  done  —  the 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

nights  of  late  autumn,  to  the  fate-haunted  Romanoffs! 
Consider!  " 

The  word  fell  like  a  weight  of  lead. 

'*  Consider !  —  Peter,  Catherine  the  First,  Anna  Leo- 
poldovna,  poor  Ivan  —  now  in  prison  in  Schliisselberg  — 
and  her  Majesty,  Elizabeth  Petrovna.  Good  and  evil! 
Good  and  evil !  But  always  something  important.  The 
Romanoffs  surely  have  cause  to  remember  them  —  the 
fateful  nights  of  autumn."  He  did  not  wait  for  her 
reply.  He  kissed  her  hand  and  was  gone. 

After  the  guests  had  all  left,  Catherine  Alexevna  saw 
the  Grand  Duke  cross  the  far  end  of  the  room  where 
the  musicians  had  been  stationed.  He  was  walking  rap- 
idly, but  he  was  bent  almost  double,  his  nose  sticking  out 
sharply,  and  his  mind  so  intent  upon  something  known 
only  to  himself  that  he  made  an  impression  that  was 
uncanny. 

In  the  apartments  of  her  Majesty,  they  were  dining, 
Elizabeth  Petrovna  and  Count  Ivan  Shuvalov.  This 
was  the  regular  dinner  hour,  some  time  after  midnight 
or  in  the  early  morning.  Count  Shuvalov  found  the 
imperial  woman  who  had  honored  him  with  her  prefer- 
ence peculiarly  difficult  to-night.  Was  it  possible,  he 
questioned  himself,  that  in  that  long  conversation  which 
she  had  had  with  Alexis  Razumovsky  and  which  he  had 
not  been  able  to  overhear,  the  former  favorite  had  scored 
so  heavily  that  he  was  going  to  be  reinstated?  And 
what  was  it  that  he  had  given  her  which  had  affected  her 
so  deeply?  He  had  not  been  able  to  see  at  the  time. 
Then,  he  envied  the  past  that  had  been  theirs  together. 
Surely,  Razumovsky  had  had  all  the  best  of  it.  Noth- 
ing but  the  ashes  of  love  had  been  left  for  him.  He  was 
really  only  the  lover  of  the  dead,  he  thought,  as  he  glanced 
at  the  passionless,  gemmed  idol  of  a  woman  who  sat 

18 


opposite  him,  without  seeming  to  know  that  he  was  there. 
What  was  it  that  Razumovsky  gave  her  that  she  put 
hastily  under  lock  and  key  as  soon  as  they  entered  her 
apartments?  Elizabeth  Petrovna  was  distrait  and  could 
not  eat.  With  that  caressing  smile  and  voice  which  had 
certain  notes  that  struck  the  heart  and  which  no  one 
could  resist,  she  dismissed  him  as  soon  as  dinner  was 
over,  and  called  for  her  women.  After  they  had  dis- 
robed her  for  the  night,  she  unwrapped  a  prayer-book 
and  read  from  it.  Then  she  took  an  icon,  placed  it  upon 
a  little  stand  and  knelt  reverently  in  front  of  it.  When 
she  arose  from  her  nightly  prayer,  she  dismissed  her 
women.  She  waited  expectantly,  with  inclined  and  listen- 
ing head,  until  she  heard  the  fast  foot-fall  fade  into  si- 
lence. Then  she  crossed  the  room  and  lifted  a  curtain 
that  hung  against  the  wall.  This  curtain  concealed  an- 
other room  that  adjoined  her  sleeping  chamber.  In  this 
room  —  which  was  small  —  there  was  no  furniture,  no 
ornaments.  At  one  end  of  it  there  was  a  raised  platform 
of  white  marble.  Upon  this  platform  stood  the  marble 
Venus  which  her  father,  Peter  the  Great,  had  had 
brought  from  Greece  and  placed  at  Gatschina  in  his 
pleasure  garden  which  he  called  his  Isle  of  Love. 

Elizabeth  Petrovna  prostrated  herself  upon  the  floor 
before  it,  and  her  lips  moved  in  inspired  prayer  for  the 
marble  figure  to  give  back  to  her  the  things  of  the  past, 
the  things  over  which  she  had  reigned  superbly  —  love, 
youth,  beauty, —  and  adventure  and  joy.  She  gave  her- 
self over  freely  to  that  pagan  idolatry  which  so  scandal- 
ized her  attendants  and  which  was  now  whispered  freely 
about  the  court. 

When  at  length  she  went  to  bed,  the  old  manservant, 
who  had  guarded  her  since  her  accession  to  the  throne, 
took  his  accustomed  place  upon  the  bare  floor  in  front  of 

19 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

her  bed,  where  he  slept.  But  to-night  Elizabeth  Petrovna 
herself  could  not  sleep.  At  length,  when  the  dull, 
Arctic  day  was  painting  ghastly  lines  around  the  windows, 
she  reached  out  and  touched  him. 

"  Get  up  I  Go  to  the  market  corner  and  bring  me  the 
woman  who  tells  stories.  You  know  the  one  I  mean  1 
Tell  her  I  cannot  sleep !  I  want  her  to  tell  me  of  her 
Cossack  people  —  of  the  gardens  of  the  Ukraine  in  spring 
—  and  the  nightingales.  Be  quick!" 

Count  Alexis  Razumovsky,  in  the  little  wooden  house 
in  the  faded  Anicza  Garden,  adjoining  the  palace,  who 
spent  the  evening  alone,  regretting  the  rival  who  had  sup- 
planted him,  did  not  know  how  successfully  he  had  scored 
that  night. 

As  soon  as  Catherine  Alexevna  reached  her  own  rooms, 
she  hastily  took  down  a  long,  white  cloak-like  cape  of 
wool,  provided  with  an  enveloping  hood  for  the  head, 
called  barbare,  and  under  it  concealed  herself  and  her 
court  dress.  She  took  two  bags  from  a  chest,  bags  so 
heavy  that  none  but  a  muscular  woman  like  her  could 
carry  them,  and  called  Dsiemba,  her  faithful  Calmuck. 
They  set  out  together  as  fast  as  they  could  walk  for  the 
Admiralty  Meadow.  When  they  reached  the  edge  of  it, 
Nicholas  Murievich,  in  a  black  cloak,  was  awaiting  them. 
The  old  Calmuck  seated  himself  on  the  ground  at  a  re- 
spectful distance,  out  of  range  of  hearing. 

With  an  almost  boyish  enthusiasm  Nicholas  Murievich 
flung  his  arms  about  Catherine  Alexevna,  without  speak- 
ing, and  held  her  close.  She  was  the  first  to  sever  the 
embrace.  It  occurred  to  him  upon  the  moment  that  she 
was  always  the  first  to  do  this.  Was  it  because  love  was 
less  necessary  to  her,  he  wondered? 

"  I  have  brought  the  money,"  were  her  first  words, 
placing  the  heavy  bags  upon  the  ground  beside  them. 

20 


THE  CONCERT 

Again,  paying  no  attention  to  the  money,  as  to  a  thing 
inconsequential,  he  put  his  young,  impassioned  arms  about 
her  and  drew  her  toward  him.  His  mind  forecasted 
sadly  the  future,  the  long  months  to  come  when  he  could 
not  see  her.  Then  he  realized  how  powerful  was  the 
physical  body  of  this  woman  whom  he  held  in  his  arms. 
He  could  feel  it  now.  He  could  feel  the  steady  nerves 
of  steel.  It  was  this  combination  that  gave  her  power, 
not  the  delicacy  of  esthetic  sensibility.  Then,  he  won- 
dered that  these  qualities  continued  to  attract  him.  But 
he  forgot  this  soon  in  the  fact  that  the  woman  in  his  arms 
was  young  and  good  to  look  upon,  and  that  they  were 
alone  in  the  night,  and  he  loved  her. 

"  This  is  what  I  wish  you  to  do  for  me,  Nicholas 
Murievich,"  she  replied,  in  answer  to  his  repeated  ques- 
tions. "  I  wish  you  to  find  out  what  is  the  opinion  of  the 
foreign  courts  about  me.  How  strong  I  am?  Am  I 
more  popular  than  the  Grand  Duke?  I  wish  to  know  the 
truth  —  the  exact  truth.  It  is  necessary  for  me  to  know 
it.  And  you  are  the  only  person  in  the  world  upon  whom 
I  can  depend  to  find  out  and  to  tell  me.  Now  do  not 
spare  my  feelings  in  reporting.  When  the  final  struggle 
comes  I  wish  to  know  just  what  part  the  different  ministers 
who  are  accredited  here  are  to  play.  An  exact  knowledge 
of  how  I  really  stand  with  foreign  courts  will  strengthen 
me.  I  must  have  it! 

"  In  addition  I  cannot  get  out  of  Russia,  to  travel,  to 
see  the  world  —  to  learn  —  I  wish  you  to  be  eyes  for  me  I 
I  wish  you  to  see  everything !  I  wish  you  to  tell  me  every- 
thing! There  is  nothing  too  insignificant  for  me  to  be 
interested  in ! 

"  It  is  enough  to  make  me  a  dolt,  an  idiot,  to  be  shut 
up  in  one  country,  like  a  prisoner.  I  wish  to  be  better 
informed  about  Paris  than  the  French  ambassador  him- 

21 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

self.  Do  not  spare  couriers  and,  therefore,  expense. 
Here  is  gold !  With  it  you  can  line  the  road  from  Peters- 
burg to  Paris  with  them  to  satisfy  my  curiosity."  She 
touched  one  of  the  heavy  bags  with  a  blue,  satin  slippered 
foot.  "  In  addition,  I  must  know  the  truth  about  my 
mother,  her  affairs,  her  health.  They  keep  the  true 
conditions  from  me.  Is  she  provided  with  money? 
Does  Elizabeth  Petrovna  still  continue  her  allowance 
from  the  crown?  Or  is  she  penniless?  " 

"  Now  that  the  war  with  Prussia  has  commenced,  and 
the  usual  highway  is  not  accessible,  your  Royal  Highness, 
I  am  going  direct  from  here  to  Warsaw.  That  is  the 
safest  road  now,  and  quickest,  too,  to  Paris.  And  you 
may  be  assured  that  I  shall  perform  your  commissions 
faithfully." 

"  I  hate  to  have  you  go,  Nicholas  Murievich !  "  she 
exclaimed,  with  an  unaccustomed  burst  of  emotion. 
"  We  are  making  history  here  now  so  fast,  no  one  can 
predict  what  will  have  happened  before  your  return. 
Life  will  be  increasingly  difficult,  too,  for  me." 

He  forgot  his  discontent  over  the  futile  concert  and  his 
own  part  in  it  which  had  displeased  him.  He  thought 
only  of  her.  That  tremendous  physical  power  which  was 
hers  had  swept  him  into  forgetfulness  of  self  and  estab- 
lished her  greater  claim  to  his  life  and  pleasure.  Now  he 
thought  only  of  her.  How  many  times  this  same  thing 
had  happened  when  they  had  met!  An  emotion  passed 
over  him  that  made  him  tremble  at  the  thought  that  he 
must  leave  her,  that  this  night  would  be  the  last  for 
months. 

The  four  rows  of  leafless  lindens  along  the  Nevsky 
Prospect  were  beginning  to  show  against  the  sky.  The 
gold,  pointed  tower  of  the  Admiralty  looked  like  a  new 
constellation  swinging  up  into  sight  out  of  the  unknown. 

22 


THE  CONCERT 

"  The  horses  are  awaiting  me,  Catherine  Alexevna ! 
There  is  no  more  time.  Day  will  soon  be  here. 
Good-by!  Good-by!  Be  careful  —  there  is  much  to 
fear !  "  catching  her  in  his  arms  and  kissing  her  again  and 
again. 

On  her  way  back  to  the  Anicza  Palace  — in  order  to 
shorten  the  distance  —  she  walked  along  the  edge  of  the 
pond,  and  the  river,  and  saw,  just  before  she  turned  the 
corner  to  the  palace  entrance,  far,  gleaming  patches  of 
cold,  sleeping  water,  to  which  in  an  hour,  day  would 
bring  the  disconcerting  blaze  of  steel. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   INTERVIEW 

"  Your  Royal  Highness,"  exclaimed  Catherine 
Ivanovna  Shargorodskaia,  the  favorite  lady-in-waiting, 
"you  must  take  some  rest!  You  have  paced  the  floor 
the  entire  day!  You  have  eaten.no  food!  You  cannot 
go  on  like  this  !  It  will  kill  you !" 

"  I  know  it,  Catherine  Ivanovna.  But  one  cannot 
always  do  what  is  wise.  Sometimes  one  does  not  know 
what  to  do." 

'  You  are  losing  flesh  every  day.  You  will  die  if  you 
do  not  put  an  end  to  this  worry." 

"  But  if  I  cannot  succeed  in  seeing  her  Majesty  and  in 
talking  with  her,  there  is  no  knowing  what  will  happen. 
The  faction  against  me  is  increasing  —  in  number  and 
strength.  If  I  cannot  put  a  stop  to  it  soon,  I  may  be  im- 
prisoned. It  may  even  be  worse  than  that.  Who 
knows?  Terrible  things  happen  here — " 

"  Let  me  consult  my  uncle,  the  confessor  of  your  Royal 
Highness,  Feodor  Jakovlovich  Dubansky.  I  will  talk 
with  him.  I  will  explain  everything.  I  will  tell  him 
what  you  wish.  In  this  way  a  reconciliation  may  be  ef- 
fected —  and  very  soon,  too." 

"  Perhaps,  Catherine  Ivanovna,  that  is  best.  I  con- 
fess I  do  not  know  what  to  do  myself.  Almost  all  my 
friends  —  and  my  servants  —  have  been  sent  to  Siberia, 
except  you.  Go, —  see  your  uncle.  It  can  do  no  harm." 

Catherine  Ivanovna  hastily  bowed,  casting  a  sympa- 
thetic look  toward  her  mistress,  and  left  the  room. 

24 


THE  INTERVIEW 

The  Grand  Duchess  continued  her  nervous  pacing  of 
the  room,  pausing  occasionally  at  a  window  to  look  out 
upon  the  early  winter  night,  and  tap  with  her  fingers 
upon  the  cold  pane.  At  eleven  o'clock  Catherine  Ivan- 
ovna  returned  and  the  expression  of  her  face  showed  that 
she  did  not  consider  that  her  journey  had  been  a  failure. 

"  My  uncle  says,  Your  Royal  Highness,  for  you  to  un- 
dress, get  into  bed  and  feign  illness.  Then,  ask  for  a 
priest,  and  send  for  him.  He  will  be  dressed  and  waiting 
for  the  message.  He  will  come  immediately.  Then  he 
will  go  directly  from  you  to  her  Majesty  and  give  your 
message  to  her.  He  cannot  be  forbidden  entrance  to  her 
Majesty  by  Count  Shuvalov,  because  he  is  a  priest,  and  he 
would  not  dare  forbid  him." 

The  Grand  Duchess  took  the  advice  of  her  favorite 
lady-in-waiting,  Catherine  Ivanovna.  She  undressed  and 
went  to  bed. 

As  soon  as  the  news  of  her  illness  spread  abroad  there 
was  consternation  in  the  palace.  Feet  could  be  heard  run- 
ning in  all  directions.  There  was  a  murmur  of  voices 
like  buzzing  of  bees.  These  were  always  the  busiest 
hours  of  life  under  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  Petrovna,  the 
small  black  hours  of  the  early  morning,  here  where  the 
marking  of  time  was  so  upset  that  no  one  seemed  ever  to 
go  to  bed. 

The  news  of  the  illness  spread  like  wildfire.  Lackies, 
attendants,  ladies-  and  gentlemen-in-waiting,  were  flying 
about  through  the  long  chill  corridors.  When  the  Grand 
Duke  and  Elizabeth  Woronzov  heard  it,  they  could  not 
conceal  their  satisfaction.  Elizabeth  Woronzov  was 
congratulated.  She  hastened  to  send  word  of  the  serious 
illness  by  one  of  her  personal  attendants  to  her  uncle,  the 
vice-chancellor.  She  at  once  took  on  the  airs  of  an 
Empress. 

25 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

The  palace  was  shaken  with  excitement,  and  the  priest 
was  obliged  to  make  his  way  through  a  greedy-eyed,  gos- 
siping, constantly  increasing  crowd,  to  the  door  of  the 
apartments  occupied  by  the  Grand  Duchess.  When  the 
crowd  in  the  corridors  found  that  the  priest  had  been 
with  the  Grand  Duchess  for  an  hour,  they  were  sure  that 
she  was  going  to  die  and  the  opposing  faction  was  elated. 

"  Feodor  Jakovlovich  Dubansky,"  began  Catherine 
Alexevna,  "  I  wish  you  to  go  to  her  Majesty  to-night  and 
tell  her  that  I  sent  you.  I  wish  you  to  beg  her  to  permit 
me  to  return  forever  to  my  home  in  Prussia.  After  you 
have  communicated  this  to  her,  judge  of  its  effect  upon 
her,  and  then  try  to  arrange  for  me  to  be  admitted  to 
see  her  to-night.  If  I  wait  until  to-morrow  or  another 
night,  for  the  interview,  it  may  be  too  late  and  I  may  be 
imprisoned,  or  publicly  divorced,  and  Elizabeth  Woron- 
zov  put  in  my  place.  Be  sure  to  impress  upon  her  mind 
that  I  am  eager  to  return  to  my  country  and  my  home." 

The  priest  went  directly  to  the  apartments  of  her 
Majesty.  In  a  few  moments  he  returned  with  the  good 
news  that  her  Majesty  had  graciously  consented  to  the 
interview.  Catherine  Alexevna  expressed  her  gratitude 
to  the  priest  for  what  he  had  done  for  her,  and  directed 
Catherine  Ivanovna  to  call  her  women  and  tell  them  to 
bring  a  court  robe  and  her  jewels. 

"  I  must  dress  to  please  her  Majesty.  That  is  impor- 
tant, Catherine  Ivanovna.  Every  one  who  approaches 
her  Majesty  now  that  she  is  so  ill,  must  be  dressed  in  the 
latest  fashion  of  France.  This  living  up  to  the  frivolities 
gives  her  courage  and  the  illusion  that  she  is  not  going  to 
die.  She  feels  that  they  keep  death  off.  Bring  me  the 
pink-flowered  brocade  —  the  one  with  interwoven  gold 
figures,  and  my  turquoises.  Bring  also  my  powdered, 
high  court-wig,  as  if  for  a  presentation." 

26 


THE  INTERVIEW 

At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  Count  Alexis  Shuvalov 
called  for  her  and  announced  that  her  Majesty  would 
graciously  see  her,  at  once. 

The  spacious  apartments  of  her  Majesty,  in  which  gold 
glittered  everywhere,  were  empty  and  lonely.  It  seemed 
to  Catherine  Alexevna,  as  she  entered,  that  it  was  sadder 
to  die  amid  splendor  than  amid  poverty.  One  felt  more 
the  last  triumphant  sting  of  material  things.  There  was 
not  a  soul  in  the  great  anteroom,  which  in  former  days  of 
health  was  filled  with  a  jostling,  noisy  throng  of  courtiers. 
Catherine  Alexevna  had  never  seen  it  empty  before.  It 
made  her  realize  afresh  how  serious  was  the  condition  of 
her  Majesty,  and  how  near  the  end  must  be  when  she,  who 
had  loved  gayety  and  dissipation,  was  neglected  and  alone. 
She  could  hear  the  bleak  December  wind  beating  against 
the  windows  and  the  stinging  rainfall.  She  shivered  at 
thought  of  the  versts  of  blackness  that  lay  outside. 

As  she  approached  the  passage  that  led  to  the  room  in 
which  her  Majesty  was  awaiting  her,  she  saw  the  Grand 
Duke,  standing  in  court  attire  in  an  opposite  door.  She 
thought:  "  He  has  gone  in  ahead  of  me.  It  was  Count 
Shuvalov,  of  course,  who  arranged  for  that." 

Her  Majesty  was  standing  to  receive  her.  Catherine 
Alexevna  threw  herself  upon  the  floor  at  her  feet. 

"  I  have  come  to  implore  your  Majesty  to  send  me 
back  to  my  home !  This  is  not  affectation  on  my  part. 
I  assure  you  that  I  am  sick  of  it  all.  It  is  dwarfing  my 
heart.  It  is  dwarfing  my  soul.  I  am  sick  of  living  in  a 
gilded  prison.  It  is  killing  my  normal  self.  It  is  devel- 
oping in  me  terrible  powers.  I  can  see  it  now.  But  if  I 
stay  here,  the  time  will  come  when  I  cannot  see  it." 

Elizabeth  Petrovna,  who  seemed  more  grieved  than 
angry,  motioned  her  to  arise.  But  she  still  remained  at 
her  feet. 

27 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

"How  can  I  let  you  go?"  she  replied  in  a  voice  in 
which  there  was  only  kindness.  "  Have  you  forgotten 
that  you  have  children?  " 

"  My  children  are  in  your  Majesty's  hands.  They 
could  not  be  in  better  ones." 

"  But  what  excuse  shall  I  give  to  the  world?  " 

"  If  your  Majesty  should  find  it  best,  tell  the  real  causes 
that  have  given  rise  to  the  displeasure  of  your  Majesty, 
and  that  of  the  Grand  Duke,  your  nephew." 

"  But  where  will  you  find  the  means  to  live  upon  with 
your  family?  " 

"  I  shall  accommodate  myself  to  the  life  I  knew  before 
your  Majesty  did  me  the  honor  to  bring  me  to  Russia." 

"  But  your  mother  is  in  exile.  She  had  to  flee  from 
Prussia.  She  is  in  Paris." 

"  I  know  that,  your  Majesty.  She  was  so  devoted  to 
your  interests  and  to  mine,  that  she  drew  upon  herself  the 
displeasure  of  Frederick  the  Great !  "  Again  Elizabeth 
Petrovna  commanded  the  Grand  Duchess  to  arise.  This 
time  she  obeyed. 

Elizabeth  Petrovna  became  meditative  and  walked 
about  the  floor.  They  were  in  a  long,  narrow  room  with 
three  windows  in  a  row,  against  which  they  could  hear  the 
black  rain  beating.  Between  the  windows,  all  along  that 
side  of  the  room,  stood  small  mahogany  tables  littered 
with  the  gold  gem-studded  toilet  articles  of  her  Majesty. 
The  fretful  candles  struck  from  them  points  of  vari-tinted 
flame. 

Besides  Catherine  Alexevna  and  her  Majesty, 
Count  Alexis  Shuvalov  and  the  Grand  Duke  were  present. 
In  one  corner  of  the  room  a  huge,  green  silk  umbrella  was 
spread  to  conceal  a  small  Turkish  divan,  and  here  Count 
Ivan  Shuvalov  was  hidden  so  that  he  could  listen,  unseen, 
to  the  conversation. 

28 


THE  INTERVIEW 

Catherine  Alexevna  was  shocked  by  the  appearance  of 
Elizabeth  Petrovna.  Her  face  was  eloquent  with  beauty 
and  with  death.  And  she  was  ablaze  with  gems.  She 
wore  a  plain  gown  of  bright  blue  silk  velvet,  with  a  long 
court  train.  From  it  her  arms  and  shoulders  shone 
white  and  fine.  Over  her  shoulders  and  falling  to  the 
floor,  hung  an  oriental  scarf  of  white  gauze  embroidered 
thickly  with  diamonds.  The  mass  of  shaking  curls  on  the 
top  of  her  head  was  twined  and  held  in  place  by  a  rope  of 
diamonds.  It  was  as  if  from  their  fictitious  fire  she 
longed  to  draw  back  to  herself  the  old  mad  passion  of 
life  which  she  felt  to  be  slipping  away.  Catherine  Alex- 
evna knew  that  there  was  not  another  figure  in  Europe 
to  compare  in  beauty  and  majesty  with  Elizabeth  Pe- 
trovna. And  now  the  approach  of  death  had  given  her 
face  a  splendor  that  was  almost  terrifying.  In  her  heart 
she  had  always  loved  her,  her  beauty  and  her  charm. 

Catherine  Alexevna  walked  across  to  the  toilet  table 
which  stood  nearest  to  the  door  by  which  she  had  entered. 
Upon  it  was  a  tall  vase  of  silver  chiseled  by  that  accom- 
plished artist  in  metals,  Paul  Lamerie.  In  this  vase  were 
letters.  The  Empress  came  over  to  where  she  was  stand- 
ing. 

"  God  is  my  witness,  Catherine  Alexevna,  that  at  the 
time  of  your  illness,  when  you  first  came  to  Russia,  I  wept 
a  good  deal.  If  I  had  not  loved  you,  I  should  not  have 
kept  you." 

"  I  thank  your  Majesty  for  all  that  you  have  done  for 
me.  I  shall  never  forget  your  kindness.  Your  dis- 
pleasure is  the  misfortune  of  my  life."  Her  Majesty 
came  nearer. 

"  You  are  amazing  proud.  Do  you  remember  how 
once  in  the  Summer  Garden  I  asked  you  if  you  had  a  pain 
in  your  neck  because  you  did  not  greet  me  ?  " 

29 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

"Ah!  my  God,  your  Majesty,  how  could  you  believe 
that  I  could  be  proud  to  you  ?  I  swear  that  I  never  sus- 
pected for  a  moment  what  that  question  meant  four  years 
ago." 

All  the  time  the  Empress  was  talking  with  Catherine 
Alexevna,  the  Grand  Duke  was  whispering  with  Count 
Alexis  Shuvalov.  They  were  standing  in  the  center  of  the 
room  so  no  one  could  hear  distinctly  what  they  said 
because  the  room  was  so  large.  At  last  the  Grand  Duke 
lost  his  temper  and  exclaimed  in  a  loud  and  angry  voice: 

"  She  is  just  as  ugly  tempered  as  she  can  be !  And  she 
is  stubborn,  too !  " 

Then  Catherine  Alexevna  knew  that  they  were  talking 
of  her. 

"  I  rejoice  to  have  an  opportunity  to  say  in  the  presence 
of  her  Majesty,  that  I  am  only  angry  at  them  who  advise 
you  to  be  unjust  to  me.  And  that  I  am  stubborn  because 
I  have  found  that  yielding  to  you  makes  you  hate  me." 

The  Grand  Duke  listened  and  then  addressed  her 
Majesty: 

"  Now,  .your  Majesty  can  see !  Now,  your  Majesty 
can  hear  from  her  own  words  how  ugly  tempered  she  is  1 
That  is  not  all,  your  Majesty.  She  is  carrying  on  all 
kinds  of  intrigues.  And  she  is  so  clever  that  no  one  finds 
her  out.  She  has  been  plotting  with  Count  Bestushev  for 
a  year  to  be  made  regent  and  displace  me.  Your  Majesty 
cannot  guess  the  things  that  she  is  up  to!  The  night  I 
gave  my  concert  —  in  November  —  she  met  Nicholas 
Murievich  after  the  concert  was  over,  in  the  Admiralty 
Meadow.  They  were  together  there  a  long  time  — 
alone.  She  is  paying  his  expenses  this  winter  in  Paris  — 
as  a  spy  —  and  in  other  cities.  I  do  not  suppose  that 
your  Majesty  will  believe  this,  because  none  of  you  ever 
believe  anything  I  say.  But  it  is  a  fact  and  I  know  it. 

30 


I  tell  you  she  is  plotting  with  that  old  fox,  Count 
Bestushev  right  along  —  and  the  plotting  is  not  for  any- 
one's good  but  her  own.  Your  Majesty  may  be  sure  of 
that!  "  he  exclaimed  in  a  fresh  burst  of  anger. 

Upon  the  Empress,  who  was  a  clever  woman,  the  words 
had  a  different  impression  from  that  which  the  Grand 
Duke  intended  them  to  have.  Although  she  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  be  stern  with  the  Grand  Duchess,  and 
although  she  had  been  urged  by  others  to  be  stern  with 
her,  she  was  becoming  gentler  and  gentler. 

"  But  you  do  meddle  in  affairs  that  do  not  concern  you," 
continued  the  Empress,  ignoring  the  indiscreet  disclosures 
of  the  Grand  Duke  in  regard  to  Count  Bestushev  and 
Nicholas  Murievich. 

"  How  did  you  dare  send  a  command  to  Field  Marshal 
Aprakin?" 

"I?     I  never  dreamed  of  doing  such  a  thing!  " 

"  How  can  you  deny  that  you  have  written  to  him? 
Your  letter  is  in  that  vase,"  pointing  with  her  finger  to  the 
superb  piece  of  metal  work  of  Paul  Lamerie. 

"You  know  that  I  have  forbidden  you  to  write  letters 
of  any  kind." 

"  That  is  true,  your  Majesty.  I  overstepped  your  com- 
mand. I  humbly  beg  your  Majesty's  pardon.  Since  my 
letter  is  there,  your  Majesty  can  see  that  I  sent  him  no 
command.  I  merely  said  how  people  in  Petersburg  were 
judging  his  actions." 

"  But  why  did  you  write  to  him?  " 

"  Because  I  like  him  and  have  an  interest  in  him.  I 
begged  him  to  fulfill  your  Majesty's  commands." 

"  Count  Bestushev  says  that  there  were  many  letters." 

"  If  Count  Bestushev  says  that,  he  lies." 

"  Good !     Then  I  will  put  him  to  the  torture  !  " 

Count  Alexis  Shuvalov  and  the  Grand  Duke  looked  up 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

with  delight.  They  stopped  whispering  and  listened. 
Their  eyes  shone  with  malice  and  anticipated  pleasure. 

With  this  threat  the  Empress  thought  to  terrify  Cath- 
erine Alexevna  into  foolish  speaking.  She  was  mistaken. 
Although  her  heart  shook  within  her,  she  made  herself 
appear  calm  and  indifferent.  She  knew  that  it  was  the 
only  way  to  save  him.  She  replied  carelessly: 

"  That  is  as  your  Majesty  wishes.  It  is  in  your 
Majesty's  power  to  do  whatever  is  right." 

At  this  Elizabeth  Petrovna  became  silent  and  medita- 
tive and  walked  about  the  room  again.  Then  she  began 
to  talk  upon  indifferent  subjects,  now  to  the  Grand  Duke, 
now  to  Count  Alexis  Shuvalov.  Her  anger  was  gone. 
She  was  only  grieved  now.  It  was  evident  that  she  be- 
lieved that  the  Grand  Duke  wished  to  pick  a  quarrel, 
which  was  a  favorite  amusement  with  him.  She  under- 
stood his  unstable  nature.  At  length  she  walked  close 
to  Catherine  Alexevna  and  whispered  to  her: 

"  I  have  much  to  say  to  you.  But  I  cannot  say  it  now," 
looking  about  to  indicate  the  presence  of  the  others  and 
that  she  did  not  wish  to  speak  more  before  them.  Cath- 
erine Alexevna  replied  likewise  in  a  whisper:  "  I,  too, 
cannot  speak  before  them,  although  I  desire  to  speak 
with  you  greatly.  I  wish  to  show  you  all  my  heart." 

These  words  impressed  her.  They  brought  the  tears 
to  her  eyes.  In  order  to  conceal  her  emotion  Elizabeth 
Petrovna  sent  her  away: 

"  It  is  getting  late,  Catherine  Alexevna.  It  is  four 
o'clock  a  good  half  hour  ago.  I  am  hungry.  This  is 
my  dinner  hour." 

She  held  out  her  hand  for  Catherine  Alexevna  to  kiss, 
and  patted  her  head  tenderly  as  she  bent  in  homage  before 
her. 

After  the  Grand  Duchess  reached  her  own  apartments, 

32 


THE  INTERVIEW 

Count  Alexis  Shuvalov  entered  and  said  that  her  Majesty 
graciously  sent  a  goodnight  greeting. 

"  Tell  her  Majesty,"  was  the  reply,  "  that  I  thank  her 
for  her  kindness.  Tell  her  I  await  with  eagerness  the 
privilege  of  seeing  her  again." 

Catherine  Alexevna  knew  that  for  to-night  she  had 
conquered.  But  she  also  knew  that  it  could  not  last. 
Her  Majesty  was  ill.  Her  Majesty  had  no  will  of  her 
own.  She  was  surrounded  by  envious,  self-seeking 
courtiers.  Another  palace  revolution  was  on  the  way. 
There  was  no  one  who  could  not  see  it  coming. 


33 


CHAPTER  III 

NICHOLAS  MURIEVICH,  GREEK  MUSICIAN  AND  PATRIOT, 
AND  CATHERINE  ALEXEVNA,  GRAND  DUCHESS  OF 
RUSSIA THEIR  LETTERS 

PARIS. 

I  am  sensible  of  the  great  honor  your  Royal  Highness 
has  done  me  by  commissioning  me,  an  humble  musician 
and  artist,  unskilled  in  diplomacy  and  the  speech  of  courts, 
to  feel  the  pulse  of  the  European  capitals,  and  to  keep  you 
informed  of  their  attitude  toward  yourself  in  this  present 
crisis. 

If  you  could  be  in  my  position  but  one  day  you  would 
be  as  firmly  convinced  of  the  need  of  such  service  (toward 
which  your  own  sure  intelligence  guided  you)  as  you  may 
be  of  my  faithfulness  and  devotion  in  performing  it. 

The  court  of  Russia  holds  the  eyes  of  the  world.  It 
is  the  stage  upon  which  the  drama  is  being  enacted  which 
will  remake  the  boundaries  of  the  continent,  and  in  time 
create  a  new  and  a  different  civilization.  And  the  two 
people  whom  Europe  is  watching  in  this  world-struggle, 
the  two  who  will  make  the  decisive  throw  in  the  game, 
are  your  Royal  Highness  and  the  Russian  Chancellor, 
Count  Bestushev-Rjumin.  You  two  decide  the  fate  of 
Russia  —  and  of  Europe. 

Your  Royal  Highness  cannot  imagine  from  your  iso- 
lated city  by  the  banks  of  the  Neva,  how  determined  are 
the  powers  to  keep  Russia  out  of  the  struggle,  to  push  her 
back  into  Asia,  to  direct  her  energy  toward  the  East. 

34 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

In  order  to  do  this  the  efforts  of  the  diplomats  is  to  con- 
trol you  and  banish  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin.  Then,  it 
would  be  easy.  The  Empress,  Elizabeth  Petrovna,  is 
ill  and  cannot  live.  The  Grand  Duke  Peter  is  regarded 
as  little  better  than  an  idiot.  In  addition,  he  hates  Rus- 
sia. His  sympathies  are  Prussian.  If  you  and  Count 
Bestushev-Rjumin  could  be  disposed  of,  victory  would 
come.  Russia  would  be  forced  to  give  up  her  new  capital, 
Petersburg.  She  would  turn  back  toward  Asia  from 
which  she  has  emerged  with  so  much  difficulty. 

Count  Bestushev  cannot,  of  course,  keep  his  policy 
secret.  He  is  in  a  position  where  he  must  act,  and,  from 
time  to  time,  expose  his  hand.  But  you  are  under  no  such 
necessity.  You  can  keep  them  in  doubt  as  to  where  you 
stand  so  no  one  will  dare  openly  to  act  against  you. 

I  am  grateful  to  your  Royal  Highness  for  giving  me 
an  opportunity  to  see  life  from  another  viewpoint  than 
that  of  musician  and  entertainer.  This  game  of  politics, 
in  which  men  place  life  against  the  game,  is  setting  its 
fascination  upon  me.  I  realize  now  the  difficulty  of  your 
position  and  how  prudent  you  must  be.  There  can  be 
no  false  steps.  Not  every  one  has  opportunity  to  play 
for  a  crown ! 

The  only  thing  that  contributes  to  mar  my  happiness  — 
in  a  measure,  of  course,  compensated  by  the  fact  that  I 
still  serve  you  —  is  that  our  old  life  of  pleasant  compan- 
ionship is  interrupted.  The  thought  that  sustains  me  is 
that  it  will  be  taken  up  again  later,  when  you  are  free  of 
this  complicating  political  tangle  and  mistress  of  yourself 
—  and  Russia.  -^  •*, 

PETERSBURG. 
My  dearest  Nicholas : 
(Ah!  —  I  wish  now  that  you  were  not  named  for  a 

35 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

Russian  saint,  you,  who  resemble  a  Greek  faun,  or  some 
younger  brother  of  Pan!)  You  do  not?  But  you  cer- 
tainly do  I  The  lines  of  your  face  are  slanting  and 
pointed  I  Amber  colored,  slantwise  eyes.  Brown  skin. 
And  I  verily  believe  pointed  ears !  I  must  make  sure  of 
that  when  I  see  you. 

It  is  a  pleasure  for  me  to  write  to  you,  to  say  anything 
I  wish,  I  who  am  surrounded  by  etiquette  and  restraint, 
and  to  feel  that  my  words  are  falling  into  the  forgetful 
ears  of  a  faun  of  long  ago,  who  hates  affairs,  politics  and 
intrigue,  and  loves  only  life  and  love. 

We  are  having  the  gayest  of  winters  —  balls,  masks, 
theaters.  The  Empress  wishes  to  die  to  the  tune  of 
gayety  to  which  she  has  lived.  Therefore,  her  illness  is 
not  mentioned  and  things  move  on  as  if  it  were  not.  We 
dance  night  after  night  until  day.  There  is  not  another 
woman  at  court  who  can  dance  so  long  as  I.  Last  week 
there  was  a  wager  as  to  which  could  dance  longer,  the 
wife  of  the  ambassador  from  Holland  or  I.  I  won,  of 
course,  and  danced  on  after  she  was  exhausted.  Yet  my 
heart  is  not  in  this  merriment  —  although  I  enjoy  it.  It 
is  as  if  there  were  two  women  within  me  living  two  sep- 
arate lives.  And  they  take  turn  about  in  watching  the 
other.  You  remember  we  have  spoken  of  this  before. 
And  neither  of  these  women  feels  at  home  in  the  life  she 
is  leading.  Then  again,  it  is  as  if  it  were  a  play  upon 
a  stage  and  did  not  matter.  I  am  surprised  at  the  im- 
portance people  attach  to  life.  I  should  be  unhappy  in- 
deed if  I  thought  anything  mattered,  or  that  we  could  help 
ourselves.  I  could  not  watch  the  picture  then  with  such 
interest  and  such  indifference. 

During  the  long  nights  of  this  winter  when  I  have  been 
dancing  gayly,  perhaps  in  the  arms  of  some  one  who,  for 
the  moment,  pleased  me,  what  do  you  suppose  it  was  that 

36 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

was  giving  me  pleasure?  Not  the  man?  No !  Nor  the 
music!  I  hate  music.  It  was  the  thought  of  how  the 
light  was  streaming  from  our  windows  and  streaking 
snows  that  reach  unbroken  to  the  Pole.  The  contrast  bit 
my  soul  with  pleasure.  The  nearness  of  our  frivolity  to 
the  silent,  deadly  things,  the  presence  of  the  Polar  night, 
are  among  the  influences  that  make  us  live  with  such  un- 
reckoning  madness. 

The  houses  are  so  frail,  too,  against  this  torrent  of 
cold!  Just  wooden  structures,  so  loosely  built  the  wind 
blows  through  them,  and  sometimes  the  rain.  The  stoves 
fill  the  rooms  with  smoke.  There  are  holes  in  the  floor 
one  can  look  through.  There  is  no  raison  in  Russia. 
The  lack  of  it  affects  every  one.  It  is  bringing  about  a 
change  in  me.  I  can  see  it!  It  is  making  me  lose  sense 
of  reality.  I  am  unable  to  get  the  certainty  of  anything. 
It  tortures  me  that  I  cannot  make  real  this  life  that  flits 
past  me.  I  fear  because  of  this,  Nicholas  Murievich,  as 
time  goes  on,  that  I  may  do  things  that  will  make  my 
other  self  and  the  world  shudder.  And  the  things  I  do 
will  not  be  evil.  It  will  only  be  saying  B  after  one  has 
said  A. 

The  upper  classes  have  lived  gayly  this  winter.  That 
is  because  they  feel  danger  near.  They  act  like  children 
showing  off  at  school.  And  we  have  had  such  a  passion 
for  fruit  and  flowers !  To  go  into  the  home  of  any  of  my 
friends  is  like  entering  a  tropic  wilderness.  Some  have 
had  tfye  stairways  covered  with  growing  ivy;  orchids  hang- 
ing from  the  walls,  and  roses,  lilies,  azaleas,  hyacinths, 
until  the  wet,  hot  air  was  unbreatheable.  You  cannot  pic- 
ture such  profusion  of  flowers  outside  the  southern  seas. 
Every  one  has  prided  himself  upon  having  in  bloom  the 
most  fragile  flowers  of  the  south !  Think  of  it !  In  this 
Arctic  wilderness  !  In  this  Finnish  village  ! 

37 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

We  have  been  growing  grapes  and  strawberries  in  our 
cellars.  What  do  you  think  of  that?  I  tell  it  to  you 
that  you  may  wish  sometime  to  spend  a  winter  in  Russia, 
for  winter  is  the  time  to  visit  us.  It  is  our  belle  saison. 
And  the  strawberries  are  white  like  snowballs !  And  so 
are  the  grapes.  They  are  like  Russian  beauties  —  hot- 
house growths  that  do  not  see  the  sun.  I  go  out-of-doors 
every  day,  but  the  Russian  belles  do  not  —  except  Princess 
Dashkov.  And  they  look  like  Dresden  figurines.  But 
the  poor  have  suffered  this  winter  in  Russia,  Nicholas 
Murievich.  Food  has  never  been  so  high.  A  pound  of 
tea  of  the  cheapest  costs  two  and  a  half  rubles;  a  bunch  of 
wood,  one  ruble  and  sixty  copecks;  and  a  pud  of  meal 
twenty-six  copecks.  It  costs  a  fortune  for  a  doctor  to 
make  a  visit.  Her  Majesty  pays  fifteen  thousand  rubles 
a  year  just  to  heat  her  curling  iron !  And  forty  thousand 
rubles  for  her  samovar !  How  can  the  poor  be  expected 
to  live  or  to  keep  warm  ? 

My  dearest  Nicholas  Murievich,  your  letters  are  a  com- 
fort to  me,  just  as  you  yourself  are.  As  I  write,  I  can  see 
your  slanting  amber  eyes  and  red,  red  mouth,  as  I  have 
seen  them  beside  me  in  the  dusk.  May  their  sweet 
warmth  continue  to  be  the  one  reality  in  this  barren  land 
where  nothing  else  is  real  save  the  shadow  of  immensity. 

C.  A. 

PARIS. 

Yesterday,  in  my  capacity  of  musician  and  artist,  I 
played  at  Madame  Geofrin's,  where,  as  you  know,  may 
be  met  the  brains  and  beauty  of  Paris.  Russia  was  on 
every  tongue.  No  one  paid  attention  to  me.  They 
talked  freely,  although  they  knew  I  spent  the  summers  of 
several  years  in  Russia.  It  did  not  occur  to  them  a 
musician  could  know  anything  about  anything  save  music. 

38 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

I  enjoyed  hearing  these  frivolous  French  women  with 
their  fragile  graces,  in  their  blue  and  gold  salons,  talk 
of  your  tragic  country  of  cold  and  cruelty.  The  contrast 
pleased  me.  Your  Highness  will  be  amused  at  the  idea 
these  petted  dolls  of  fashion  have  of  your  Russia ;  an  idea 
in  which,  to  be  sure,  there  is  truth  -• —  as  there  is  in  every- 
thing —  but  which,  on  the  whole,  is  exaggerated.  Yet 
the  conversation  was  merry  —  even  brilliant  —  and 
worth  repeating.  French  women's  tongues  hit  the  heart 
of  truth.  But  then  one  always  hears  good  things  at 
Madame  Geofrin's. 

Russia  —  they  agreed  —  breeds  monsters  (your  Royal 
Highness  will  understand  that  these  are  not  opinions  of 
my  own.  I  am  quoting,  more  or  less  verbatim,  these 
Parisian  gossipers),  a  race  whose  natures  are  as  abnor- 
mal as  the  Holstein  giants,  so  out  of  the  range  of  the 
European  model  that  we  cannot  judge  them.  We  have 
no  standard  suitable  to  apply.  As  an  example,  of  course, 
they  gave  Ivan  the  Terrible,  who  prayed  at  the  feet  of  the 
statues  of  the  saints  one  day  —  when  he  happened  to  be 
playing  the  ascetic  —  the  next  day,  he  kissed  the  white 
shoulders  of  his  mistress.  One  day,  he  was  the  humble 
follower  of  the  Christ,  dreaming  of  a  cloister  beside  the 
White  Sea;  the  next,  an  intolerant  despot.  No  other 
race  has  embraced  such  extremes  of  mind  without  disin- 
tegrating madness,  and  —  begging  the  pardon  of  your 
Royal  Highness —  (You  have  commanded  me  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  to  conceal  nothing,  knowing  as  you  do  that 
only  they  who  can  confront  facts  can  succeed)  have  not 
all  the  Romanoffs  been  mad?  Sometimes,  they  have  pos- 
sessed a  peculiar  genius,  I  grant  you.  But  still  have  they 
not  been  mad?  Only  one  has  died  a  natural  death. 
Here,  a  gay  doll-lady  interrupted  excitedly,  waving  her 
painted  fan:  "  And  history  will  repeat  itself !  None  of 

39 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

them  will  die  a  natural  death!  Mark  my  words! 
There  is  something  about  them  that  attracts  destruction." 

Then  another  —  they  call  her  the  Princess  Conti  (by 
courtesy  1  She  is  beautiful  enough  to  be  a  princess  by 
blood) — said:  "Yes, —  and  there  was  Peter  the 
Great!  Do  you  desire  a  better  example  of  genius  and 
madness?  " 

Your  Royal  Highness,  have  you  heard  that  it  is  whis- 
pered (outside  Russia,  of  course!)  that  the  Empress  Cath- 
erine poisoned  him  because  his  caprices  were  becoming 
dangerous  for  her?  (That  is  well  to  remember !  There 
is  a  Catherine  and  a  Peter  to-day!  I  recall  now  what  I 
said  to  you  once  of  history  repeating  itself.)  You  can- 
not imagine  how  these  petted  Parisian  dolls  enjoy  toying 
with  your  fabulous  Russia.  The  contrast  delights  me. 

The  Due  de  Broglie  is  considered  somewhat  of  an 
authority  on  things  Slav,  as  you  know.  He  said  at  once : 
"  Look  at  Elizabeth,  his  daughter !  Her  amours,  her 
beauty,  have  been  the  talk  of  Europe."  Some  one 
quoted  an  old  French  diplomat  who  had  seen  her  in  her 
girlhood  as  saying  that  her  beauty  was  so  unusual  that  at 
first  sight  it  struck  terror  to  the  soul.  And  then  some  one 
quoted  a  French  letter  of  your  mother's,  who,  as  you 
know,  is  in  Paris  now.  (I  must  tell  you  more  about  this 
letter  later!)  "  Enfin  jamais  figure  ne  ressembla  a  la 
sienne.  Jamais  si  belles  couleurs,  ni  gorge,  ni  mains, 
n'ont  ete  vues." 

And  what  a  life  has  been  hers!  She  has  known  the 
pleasures  of  a  woman,  the  adventures  of  a  boy  and  the 
honors  of  an  Empress.  But  she,  too,  has  been  mad  like 
all  the  Romanoffs.  She  has  known  no  bounds.  Her 
debaucheries  have  grown  with  the  years.  It  is  because  of 
them  that  she  is  dying,  exhausted  and  prematurely  old. 
She  has  tried  to  push  further  and  further  the  limits  of 

40 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

pleasure.  And  these  last  few  years  (as  your  Royal  High- 
ness knows  well),  she  has  seldom  seen  the  day.  Night 
has  been  her  day.  Dinner  has  been  served  at  four  in 
the  morning.  Her  Majesty  retired  to  sleep  at  dawn.  So 
much  for  the  Due  de  Broglie. 

They  continued  by  saying  —  these  gay  French  people 
—  that  his  Royal  Highness,  your  husband,  the  Grand 
Duke  Peter,  has  inherited  the  madness  of  his  race,  with- 
out its  beauty,  and  its  vivid  vitality. 

The  quality  that  has  made  the  Romanoffs  successful  is 
joy.  They  who  had  it  succeeded.  They  who  had  it  not 
failed.  Peter  the  Great  and  Elizabeth  were  of  the  race 
of  Venus.  They  loved  life.  They  dared  to  live  it. 
Your  Royal  Highness,  too,  is  of  the  race  pf  Venus,  and 
the  only  one  in  Russia, —  aye !  —  perhaps  in  the  world 
to-day.  How  do  I  know,  you  would  ask?  Apropos  of 
this  word  Venus,  I  have  something  to  tell  you.  But  that, 
too,  must  wait  for  another  time. 

As  illustrative  of  this  monstrous  Russia  of  which 
all  were  talking,  the  Princess  Conti  mentioned  the 
difficulty  of  accrediting  ambassadors  there,  since  it  is 
imperative  that  they  be  young.  In  agreement,  an 
Englishman  recalled  how  a  few  years  ago  the  am- 
bassador from  his  country,  Sir  Guy  Dickens,  had  asked 
for  recall  on  the  ground  of  age.  He  said  the  King  of 
England  must  see  to  it  that  only  strong  men,  in  the  flower 
of  youth,  be  sent  to  Russia.  No  one  else  could  attend  the 
courts,  masks,  theaters.  "  I  am  not  capable  of  doing 
it  because  of  my  years.  In  addition,  I  am  tired  of  work- 
ing against  plots  and  intrigues."  Nothing,  of  course, 
was  said  to  me  —  although  I  have  lived  in  Russia  —  since 
I  am  only  an  humble  musician.  People  forget  that  music 
cultivates  the  brain  as  well  as  the  senses. 

If  your  Highness  will  permit  me  an  independent  opin- 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

ion  —  and  a  digression  — ,  I  have  noticed  in  my  wander- 
ing life  that  the  great  possess  certain  physical  character- 
istics of  the  land  in  which  they  were  born.  The  physical 
characteristics  of  Russia  are  monstrous  and  unusual. 
One  can  ride  for  months  upon  a  single  road.  Think  of 
the  central  plains  whose  extent  is  so  great  they  make  the 
mind  dizzy;  the  lonely  seas  which  winter  dominates;  the 
mountains  whose  peaks  are  the  highest  in  Europe;  the 
rivers  whose  breadth  is  that  of  seas.  There  are  swamps 
in  the  north  that  stretch  to  the  Polar  ocean.  There  are 
plains  in  the  south  as  great  as  seas.  Burning  winds  from 
the  deserts  of  Asia  sweep  across  it  and  icy  blasts  from 
an  Arctic  wilderness.  This  different  climate,  Catherine 
Alexevna,  has  bred  a  different  race,  whose  men  and 
women  of  genius  have  been  monsters. 

N.  M. 

PETERSBURG. 

Mon  cher  Nicholas:  You  warn  me  against  merri- 
ment, lest  I  forget !  That  is  the  tragedy  of  it.  There  is 
no  opportunity  to  forget.  If  you  were  here,  if  you  could 
see  the  life  that  is  mine,  the  hours  of  loneliness  (I  am 
not  permitted  to  write  or  to  receive  letters.  Work  of 
all  kinds  is  forbidden.  Reading  would  be,  too,  if  they 
knew  I  cared  for  it),  you  would  advise  me  to  keep  my 
mind  sane  by  any  means.  When  the  Grand  Duke  is 
with  me,  I  am  lonelier  than  when  he  is  away,  or,  worse 
still,  bored.  Dissipation  is  the  only  relief.  If  it  were 
not  for  that,  I  could  not  go  on  with  this  life. 

Perhaps,  the  Grand  Duke  might  have  been  good  for 
something  somewhere  else.  He  has  been  taken  and 
placed  in  a  position  where  he  does  not  belong,  for  which 
he  has  neither  ability  nor  ambition.  In  doing  this  they 
destroyed  what  good  there  was  in  him.  He  is  like  an 
oarless  boat  in  the  current  of  a  river  —  sure  of  destruc- 

42 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

tion.  The  poor  fellow  has  not  even  a  tongue  to  call 
his  own.  He  cannot  speak  well  any  language.  One 
would  think  he  had  no  ideas.  But  sometimes  these  short, 
dark,  winter  days,  when  he  walks  up  and  down  the  room 
and  plays  upon  his  violin,  I  find  that  he  can  think  in  music. 
That  is  the  way  that  struggling  soul  finds  outlet.  That 
is  the  only  time  when  he  has  the  power  or  the  dominance 
of  a  man. 

I  remember  once,  some  summers  ago,  we  were  at 
Oranienbaum  on  the  Gulf  of  Finland.  He  had  been 
particularly  wild  and  unmanageable,  so  much  so,  indeed, 
that  he  won  a  reprimand  from  her  Majesty.  At  night 
—  it  was  midsummer  and  darkness  comes  only  for  an 
hour  or  two  after  midnight  —  he  took  his  violin  and  went 
upon  the  terrace  that  overhangs  the  sea.  There,  he 
played  for  a  time,  improvised  wonderfully.  I  learned 
to  know  him  a  little  that  night;  his  longing  for  the  home 
of  his  childhood  in  Sweden,  for  the  life  of  an  artist 
musician.  I  found  that  he  is  as  lonely  and  heart-sick  of 
Russia  as  I.  When  he  came  in  from  the  terrace  with 
the  joy  and  the  softness  of  the  music  in  his  eyes,  I  tried 
to  talk  with  him.  I  felt  I  understood.  But  he  snapped 
at  me  just  like  a  surly  dog.  No  one  can  do  anything 
with  him  with  words.  They  wound  his  sensibilities. 
Sometimes  I  pity  him.  And  sometimes  I  abhor  him. 
Besides  music,  he  loves  gems  and  cards  and  Hungarian 
wine.  He  loves  playing  with  dolls,  his  negro  dwarf 
Narcissus,  his  dog  Mopsinka.  He  loves  his  can  of 
"  Knaster,"  his  German  Bible,  Sterne's  Tristram  Shandy 
in  French,  and  his  mistress,  Elizabeth  Woronzov,  who 
is  almost  as  stupid  as  he. 

Here  in  Russia  they  have  taken  away  from  me  every 
employment  of  the  life  of  a  woman.  And  they  expect 
me  to  develop  normally.  They  were  right,  those  clever 

43 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

French  people  of  whom  you  wrote.  They  make  mon- 
sters in  Russia.  I  live  under  the  same  roof  with  my  son 
but  I  seldom  see  him  —  never  alone.  The  Grand  Duke, 
my  husband,  is  a  stranger  who  seldom  speaks.  Access 
to  her  Majesty  is  well  nigh  impossible.  I  have  no  rela- 
tives —  no  one.  I  am  surrounded  by  spies.  I  am  alone 
—  save  for  Count  Bestushev.  How  can  I  help  but  lose 
womanly  charm  in  this  development  of  wits  to  ensure  the 
safety  of  my  head?  If  I  have  any  left  now,  it  is  you 
whom  I  have  to  thank,  your  warmer  temperament,  your 
youth,  your  southern  charm. 

How  I  would  like  to  throw  off  this  life  and  rush  away 
to  Paris  where  you  are !  But  we  would  not  stay  in  Paris ! 
No,  no,  my  Nicholas !  We  would  leave  for  Spain,  Egypt, 
Greece,  where  I  could  live  as  other  women  live  —  freely. 
There  in  your  arms  I  could  win  back  that  womanhood 
which  I  feel  to  be  dying  within  me.  It  is  a  strange  thing 
to  stand  off  and  watch  the  death  of  a  part  of  yourself 
and  be  unable  to  prevent  it.  That  is  what  I  am  doing. 
I  am  being  fitted  for  the  life  I  am  to  lead.  And  if  I  win 
in  the  end  —  and  there  is  nothing  to  do  but  win  —  I  shall 
be  a  machine  that  wears  the  dress  of  a  woman.  In  those 
days  of  empty  power,  when  I  sit  perked  up  in  state  I  shall 
play  for  love  (which  I  shall  never  have!)  more  bitterly 
than  I  played  for  a  crown.  The  world  will  look  on  with 
evil  comments,  not  understanding  that  it  is  the  last  at- 
tempt of  a  lonely  woman  to  find  her  heart  and  bring  it 
back  to  life. 

Ah!  my  Nicholas,  when  you  come  back  we  will  be 
happy  together  for  a  while,  just  a  little  while  (nothing 
lasts  long  here,  not  even  happiness!)  before  that  cold, 
desert  splendor  men  call  kingship  begins. 

C.  A. 

44 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

PARIS. 

There  is  a  new  beauty  in  Paris !  Is  it  not  meet  that  I 
leave  off  serious  subjects  occasionally  and  chat  with  you 
of  folly  in  a  city  where  folly  rules?  What  is  her  name, 
you  ask?  How  does  she  look?  Her  name  is  the  "  Little 
Murphy "  and  she  is  a  model  of  Boucher.  He  con- 
siders her  the  most  beautiful  woman  he  .has  painted. 
And  she  is  an  Irish  peasant!  The  King  is  interested  in 
her,  too,  and  the  Pompadour  does  not  care.  She  loves 
power  now  better  than  love. 

I  had  the  privilege  of  seeing  her  in  his  studio  the  other 
day.  Boucher,  you  know,  great  artist  that  he  is,  is  the 
kindest  of  men.  The  "  Little  Murphy  "  is  just  such  a 
blond  beauty  among  women  as  Gregory  Orlov  is  among 
men.  She  reminded  me  of  him.  Her  hair  is  the  color 
of  ripe  grain;  not  gold  nor  bronze  but  a  commingling  of 
the  two.  Her  eyes  seem  brimming  with  tears  and 
laughter.  And  she  has  that  pink  and  white  skin  of  island 
women  where  sea  fogs  are  heavy.  Boucher  will  make  her 
famous.  He  posed  her  for  us  that  we  might  understand 
his  delight  in  her.  First,  with  her  hair  unbound,  against 
a  drapery  of  blue  velvet,  beautifully  dull,  as  if  it  had 
been  bathed  in  tears  — "  bleu  malade  des  mauves  " —  and 
edged  with  faded  pink.  Next,  against  a  satin  surfaced, 
mahogany  wardrobe,  her  hair  in  a  twisted  eight  upon  her 
neck,  that  it  might  not  cloud  the  outlines.  Her  body 
was  reflected  in  a  wonderful  pink  within  the  rich  wood, 
and,  strangely  enough,  as  if  it  were  a  foot  beneath  the 
surface.  This  gave  Boucher  pleasure.  Shades,  tints, 
are  more  important  to  him  than  the  war  which  the  great 
Frederick  is  carrying  on  which  is  drawing  Europe  into 
the  whirlpool.  Frederick  is  a  man  of  genius  in  a  terri- 
tory so  small  it  makes  him  uncomfortable.  He  is  deter- 
mined to  get  out  or  make  other  nations  suffer.  It  is  the 

45 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

opinion  of  everyone  that  his  future  and  that  of  his 
country,  depend  upon  what  he  can  do  with  Russia  —  and 
you.  When  Russia  enters  with  its  armies,  it  will  tip  the 
balance.  He  might  possibly  hold  his  own  against  the 
rest  of  Europe  —  with  the  help  of  England  —  but  Rus- 
sia he  knows  is  too  much  for  him. 

Elizabeth  hates  him.  She  would  spend  the  last  ruble 
to  ruin  him.  But  Elizabeth  cannot  live.  The  Grand 
Duke  adores  him.  But  he  is  unfit  to  reign.  Then  it 
depends  upon  you !  You  are  Prussian.  He  is  count- 
ing upon  that.  You  are  a  woman  and,  therefore,  to  be 
intimidated.  You  remember  the  Russian  proverb: 
"  Women  have  long  hair  and  short  thoughts."  If  he 
cannot  win  you  to  his  side  so  that  his  ambassadors  rule 
Russia,  he  will  destroy  you.  Distrust  everything,  every- 
one—  except  the  Great  Chancellor!  Your  interests  and 
his  are  one.  Frederick  has  been  told  of  your  friendship 
with  General  Aprakin.  In  case  he  enters  the  war  against 
Prussia  at  the  head  of  an  army,  he  counts  on  bribing  or 
in  some  way  inducing  you  to  influence  General  Aprakin, 
to  stay  the  Russian  arms,  or  to  give  victory  to  Prussia. 
Just  this  week  the  king  sent  a  messenger  to  your  mother 
here  in  Paris  to  find  out  how  great  is  her  influence  over 
you,  and  to  urge  the  breaking  of  your  friendship  with 
Count  Bestushev.  You  must  tell  your  mother  to  keep 
out  of  the  game.  She  was  not  made  for  affairs.  With 
her,  politics  descend  to  personalities.  Her  viewpoint  is 
that  of  wife  of  a  petty  officer.  She  hates  the  Great 
Chancellor  just  as  she  did  when  she  first  went  with  you 
to  Russia.  That  was  fifteen  years  ago  or  more.  When 
she  started  upon  that  journey,  Frederick  the  Great  gave 
her  as  motto  of  conduct  — "  Bestushev-Rjumin  must  be 
destroyed."  And  Bestushev-Rjumin  is  still  minister  of 
Russia  and  foremost  diplomat  of  the  world.  For  fifteen 

46 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

years  every  court  of  Europe  has  instructed  its  ambassa- 
dors to  bring  about  his  fall.  With  the  Great  Chancellor 
out  of  the  way,  Europe  need  no  longer  fear  Russia.  It 
would  fall  back  toward  the  Orient,  cease  to  be  aggressive, 
and  give  up  its  dream  of  domination.  Think  what  a 
man  is  he,  your  Royal  Highness,  whom  the  combined 
brains  of  Europe  cannot  outwit!  Remember  he  holds 
Russia  in  the  palm  of  his  hand  to  give  to  you,  just  as 
Peter  the  Great  gave  it  to  him.  Do  not  let  anything 
make  you  lose  sight  of  this !  Your  life  depends  upon  itl 

Your  mother  cannot  see  —  as  you  can  —  that  the  man 
she  hates  represents  a  principle,  that  he  incorporates  a 
political  ideal.  To  her  he  is  just  an  enemy.  Is  she 
not  foolish  to  combat  a  person  whom  Europe  obeys? 
He  is  old  and  feeble;  and  if  he  is  human,  he  is  weary 
of  struggle.  But  —  he  is  the  one  to  consider ! 

In  regard  to  the  quotation  from  your  mother  in  my 
last  letter  about  the  Empress,  it  will  be  difficult  for  you 
to  believe  her  guilty  of  such  indiscretion.  That  extract 
is  from  a  letter  which  she  wrote  M.  de  Pouilly.  He  is 
planning  to  make  a  history  of  Russia.  She  is  helping 
him  by  writing  down  what  she  knows  from  her  two 
years'  residence  there  and  her  correspondence  with  you. 

Now  that  I  have  arranged  for  you  to  write  to  your 
mother  again  (after  the  prohibition  of  her  Majesty) 
you  must  be  careful,  as  this  proves.  Any  correspond- 
ence (except  the  letters  to  me,  which  go  by  a  channel 
through  which  you  send  no  others)  may  be  intrusted  to 
d'Olilio,  first  violinist  to  the  Grand  Duke.  I  vouch  for 
his  trustworthiness! 

N.  M. 

PETERSBURG. 

We  have  had  a  great  ball,  my  Nicholas,  to  mark  the 
high  tide  of  the  holidays.  You  can  imagine  what  a  great 

47 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

ball  means  in  Russia.  It  is  the  custom  to  change  costume 
once  or  twice  in  the  course  of  a  night.  When  the  ball 
was  announced,  I  was  in  despair.  I  did  not  know  what 
to  wear.  I  have  exhausted  the  art  of  the  robe  makers 
of  Paris.  There  is  nothing  left  that  is  new  and  expensive. 
What  do  you  suppose  I  did?  Coquetry  of  dress  at  our 
court  can  go  no  further.  Everyone  tries  to  outdo  the 
other  in  elegance  and  novelty. 

I  wore  a  perfectly  plain  gown  of  white  gros  de  Tours. 
You  know  how  slender  I  am.  There  was  no  trimming 
upon  it.  My  long  hair  was  brushed  smoothly  back  and 
done  in  a  fox's  tail.  I  put  a  white  rose  in  my  hair  and 
another  in  my  corsage,  flung  a  gauze  scarf  about  my  shoul- 
ders, and  put  on  a  white  gauze  apron.  When  I  entered, 
every  eye  was  turned  toward  me.  I  was  merry  that 
night  and  my  cheeks  were  red.  I  never  danced  so  well ! 
That  was  because  I  was  happy  and  knew  I  pleased.  I 
cannot  remember  having  so  many  compliments  as  I  had 
that  night.  They  said  I  was  beautiful  as  day.  We  like 
to  dream  of  day  here  in  these  six-month  Arctic  mid- 
nights. But  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  have  never  con- 
sidered myself  beautiful.  I  please  people.  Therein  lies 
my  power.  And  they  —  the  people  —  cannot  distin- 
guish. 

I  had  a  great  time  in  getting  my  hair  done  as  I  wished. 
My  old  hairdresser  protested  against  the  simplicity. 
What  do  you  suppose  I  did?  You  will  never  be  able  to 
believe  it  when  I  tell  you.  Or,  if  you  do,  you  will  under- 
stand how  Russianized  I  am.  I  slapped  him  roundly  —  in 
the  face !  First  with  one  hand  and  then  with  the  other. 
I  felt  better  afterward.  Yet  I  was  not  angry  in  earnest. 
I  was  playing  the  part  while  my  other  self  looked  on. 
I  am  an  actor  in  life  instead  of  upon  a  stage.  I  am 
becoming  Russianized,  my  Nicholas.  Or,  better,  I  am 

48 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

wearing  draped  about  me,  when  I  wish,  the  Russian 
soul.  One  proof  of  it  is  the  way  I  am  piling  up  debts. 
Thousands  upon  thousands  of  rubles !  I  am  drawing 
upon  the  Bank  of  England !  Think  of  it !  In  very  truth, 
Nicholas.  No  jest!  There  are  days  when  the  only 
thing  that  gives  me  pleasure  is  to  spend  money.  I  do  not 
care  a  copeck  for  the  things  I  buy.  I  just  long  to  spend 
money,  make  gold  flow,  the  way  Ivan  the  Terrible  made 
blood  flow,  to  open  the  veins  of  nature  where  the  yellow 
ruin  lies.  I  love  danger,  then !  This  land  of  excess 
makes  me  want  excess  too.  It  is  in  the  air. 

About  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  slipped  away 
from  the  ball  with  Princess  Dashkov  and  Gregory  and 
Alexis  Orlov.  We  put  on  sable  cloaks,  boots  and  hoods, 
right  on  over  our  bare  shoulders.  A  sledge  was  waiting. 
We  drove  like  mad  through  those  ghostly  hours  that  pre- 
cede the  day.  First,  upon  the  Neva.  Along  the  shore 
were  blocks  of  ice  like  the  ruins  of  a  dead  world.  Their 
edges  winked  back  the  stars.  From  holes  cut  in  the  river 
mist  arose.  Then,  for  the  open  country!  We  longed 
to  hear  the  wolves  howl  —  all  of  us.  Buried  in  each 
other's  arms,  with  the  memory  of  that  languorous  dance 
music  in  our  ears,  and  the  sickenly  sweet  smell  of  a  myriad 
of  tropic  flowers  in  our  nostrils,  we  longed  for  some- 
thing brutal,  untamed.  And  we  did  drive  —  each  con- 
scious of  the  same  desire  —  to  where  we  could  hear 
wolves  howling  across  the  monotonous  magnificence  of 
snow.  And  I  loved  it!  I  clenched  my  teeth  and  loved 
it,  and  the  thin,  pale  wind  that  stung  my  face.  I  felt 
arise  in  me  for  the  first  time  the  power  —  and  the  de- 
sire —  to  destroy.  When  we  drove  back  to  Petersburg, 
did  we  go  home?  No,  no  —  not  we!  What  did  we 
do?  We  drove  to  a  Russian  bath.  We  turned  out  the 
inmates.  We  took  the  building  by  storm.  After  the 

49 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

bath  was  over,  we  plunged  into  the  snow  —  into  the  sting- 
ing snow  that  softly  covered  us.  And  we  loved  it!  Its 
cold  shock  was  good  and  sense  calming!  We  did  not 
go  home  until  night.  We  went  on  to  Princess  Dashkov's. 
There  we  reveled  in  Russian  fashion.  I  did  not  go  to 
bed  for  two  days  and  a  night.  And  when  I  did,  I  slept 
that  sleep  of  exhaustion  which  has  neither  dreams  nor 
remembrance.  When  I  awoke,  it  was  as  if  the  dissipa- 
tion had  not  been,  time  had  pushed  it  so  far  away  from 
me.  That  is  why  I  am  telling  it  to  you,  as  I  do  every- 
thing, because  understanding,  you  will  not  care.  Noth- 
ing leaves  an  impression  upon  me  save  an  unreal  shadow 
of  memory.  After  it  is  over,  it  is  the  same  as  if  it  had 
not  been.  Every  yesterday  slips  away  into  nothingness. 
Sometimes,  I  think  there  is  really  nothing  but  to-day. 

Gregory  Orlov  is  a  splendid  example  of  physical  per- 
fection, a  tawny,  supple  tiger,  in  this  new  jungle  which 
is  Eighteenth  Century  Russia.  You  need  not  grieve  or 
be  jealous!  There  is  no  cause.  If  you  were  here,  I 
should  prefer  you.  But  you  are  away !  Life  goes  on  and 
I  must  live ;  not  because  I  wish  to,  but  because  I  have  to. 
The  cold  of  the  north  brings  with  it  the  need  of  things  that 
heat  the  blood.  What  more  can  I  say  than  this;  that 
when  you  are  away  I  dream  of  you,  long  for  you,  despite 
the  attractions  and  the  demands  of  the  present. 

Adieu. 

C.  A. 

PARIS. 

A  Greek  friend  of  mine  has  just  reached  Paris.  He 
is  not  a  Greek  with  a  surname  from  Little  Russia.  He 
boasts  a  pure  patronymic.  He  has  been  traveling  in 
Russia  and  is  homeward  bound  with  the  pleasant  plan 
of  stirring  up  a  political  party  in  Greece  to  drive  the 

50 

' 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

Turks  out  of  Europe.  Greece  and  Russia  have  one 
religion.  In  addition,  the  shores  of  Greece  are  the  nat- 
ural southern  boundary  of  Russia.  He  said  it  ought  to 
be  the  dream  of  the  next  Empress  —  who,  of  course,  will 
be  your  Royal  Highness !  —  to  seat  herself  upon  the 
throne  of  Constantine. 

He  was  delighted  with  the  architecture  of  Russian  cities, 
Moscow  in  particular.  When  he  first  saw  doves  flying 
over  its  Graeco-Oriental  domes  the  thought  came  to 
him  that  there  should  be  a  Venus  to  complete  the  pic- 
ture —  a  Venus  of  the  North.  Later,  in  Petersburg,  one 
night  of  winter,  when  the  people  were  amusing  themselves 
upon  the  Neva  with  their  ice  mountains,  he  saw  you. 
The  scene  impressed  him.  The  people  at  their  pastime 
were  silent  as  you  have  told  me  was  their  habit.  There 
was  little  talking  and  no  laughing.  And  the  night  was 
so  windless  the  torches  stood  motionless  like  little  red 
tulips  made  of  flame.  Looking  up  from  their  dazzle 
the  sky  was  black,  as  if  it  were  dotted  with  silver 
nails.  The  earth  beneath  its  robe  of  snow  was  opaquely 
white.  The  ice  mountains  glowed  darkly  green  in  the 
shadow  and  glittered  with  a  nameless  brightness  where 
the  torches  streaked  them.  Suddenly,  a  thrill  of  nerv- 
ous response  shocked  the  crowd  into  attention.  Your 
Royal  Highness  and  some  of  the  courtiers  had  come. 
You  went  to  the  top  of  the  nearest  mountain.  Gregory 
Orlov  was  with  you.  You  passed  so  near  my  friend  he 
saw  your  eyes.  You  were  cloaked  in  white  fur.  White 
fur,  whereon  diamond  dotted  stars  sparkled,  was  on  your 
head. 

The  silence  and  mystery  of  the  Arctic  midnight 
wrapped  you  about  with  awe  and  imposed  upon  you  a 
somber  majesty.  As  Gregory  Orlov  reached  his  hand 
to  conduct  you  to  the  sledge  for  the  descent,  the  north- 

51 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

ern  lights  flamed  up  the  sky,  unfolding  a  transparent,  cold, 
swaying  fan  of  phosphorescent  green,  deepening  toward 
the  center.  As  its  unreal  light  touched  you  it  glorified 
you,  and  he  exclaimed :  "  The  Venus  of  the  North !  A 
Venus  born  of  the  ice  and  snow,  with  its  blue-green  fury 
in  her  eyes  and  about  her  person,  something  primeval, 
splendid,  that  recalls  the  coldly  opalescent  waters  that 
stretch  from  the  White  Sea  to  the  Pole !  The  cold,  the 
silence,  of  the  nights  of  winter,  the  brief  dazzle  of  day 

—  all  are  there,  and,  besides,  something  intangible,  un- 
conquerable, dominant." 

Leaving  Petersburg,  he  traveled  over  northern  Russia 
before  returning  to  Paris  by  way  of  Vienna.  On  this 
journey  he  was  impressed  by  the  granite  strewn  across 
the  land  with  no  apparent  reason.  It  is  a  country  of 
swamps  with  few  rocks.  It  looked  like  the  ruins  of  a 
world.  It  impressed  him  unpleasantly.  And  Peters- 
burg, the  city  of  frail  wood  —  a  Finnish  village  —  after 
the  marble  castles  of  Europe,  made  him  feel  that  noth- 
ing was  substantial  there  —  nothing  real  —  that  it  was  im- 
provised for  the  moment.  This  seems  to  have  affected 
its  inhabitants.  They  live  there  like  people  camping  out 

—  riotously,  madly  —  as  if  at  night  it  might  end  and  be 
over,  as  if  nothing  mattered  for  more  than  a  moment. 
He  said  he  did  not  dream  that  any  race  was  capable 
of  such  dissipation.     That  is  the  way  it  is  in  new  lands 
where  there  is  no  past  and  all  is  future. 

He  saw  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin,  too,  that  night.  He 
looked  feeble  and  frail.  He  had  eyes  for  no  one  but 
your  Royal  Highness.  Under  the  ghastly  green  glow  of 
the  borealis  the  concentrated  power  of  his  wrinkled  old 
face  was  frightful.  It  was  that  of  an  enchanter. 

N.  M. 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

PETERSBURG. 

Is  it  not  strange,  my  Nicholas,  that  a  person  who  can- 
not grasp  the  reality  of  pleasure,  can  feel  pity?  All  this 
is  apropos  of  the  Grand  Duke,  who  the  past  few  days 
has  been  obsessed  by  a  vision.  It  may,  of  course,  be  the 
result  of  drink.  He  is  drinking  heavily,  and  of  those 
fiery  wines  of  Hungary.  Think  of  their  red  fury  in 
that  pale  body  of  his! 

Whenever  he  walks  upon  the  street  —  he  told  this  to 
one  of  the  men  of  the  court,  not  to  me  —  suddenly  a 
muffled  figure  slips  from  a  building's  shadow  and  walks 
beside  him.  One  day  a  friend  was  with  him,  and  he  kept 
saying  to  the  friend:  "  Step  over  a  little!  Make  room 
for  him!  "  The  friend  turned  to  look!  There  was  no 
one  to  be  seen,  nothing  but  the  creaking  snow.  He 
thought  he  was  mad.  Well  he  might !  Then  he  learned 
not  to  say  anything,  but  kept  walking  closer  and  closer 
to  his  companion,  as  if  to  make  room  for  an  invisible 
third. 

From  these  excursions  he  comes  in  white,  with  fright- 
ened, pitiful  eyes.  One  day  he  plucked  up  sufficient  cour- 
age to  look  at  the  phantom.  It  was  Peter  the  Great! 
But  so  changed  —  pale,  sad.  When  he  left  the  Grand 
Duke  that  day,  he  turned  and  spoke  to  him  saying: 
"Poor  Peter!  Poor  Peter!''  Since  his  own  name  is 
Peter,  he  takes  it  as  a  premonition  of  death.  Now  he 
dislikes  to  leave  the  palace,  he  is  so  afraid  the  phantom 
will  walk  beside  him.  Even  the  phantom  of  the  mighty 
Peter  is  more  powerful  than  the  living  presence  of  his 
feeble  grandson. 

Now  the  Grand  Duke  is  trying  to  forget  the  vision  at 
his  old  pastime,  playing  with  dolls.  He  has  had  a  multi- 
tude of  leaden  soldier  dolls  sent  by  some  ambassador's 
wife.  He  has  had  them  dressed  in  Prussian  military 
costume  and  he  busies  himself  playing  with  them.  They 

53 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

cover  the  floor  of  one  room.  He  trains  and  manoeuvers 
them  as  if  they  were  alive.  None  of  the  discipline  is 
neglected.  Sometimes,  he  is  not  seen  for  days  when 
he  is  particularly  busy  drilling  his  soldiers.  He  has 
always  had  the  greatest  penchant  for  dolls. 

The  other  day  I  heard  the  sound  of  a  commotion  com- 
ing from  his  room.  What  do  you  suppose  it  was?  A 
dog  was  barking.  The  Grand  Duke  was  cursing.  I 
could  hear  the  hiss  of  a  whip.  He  had  a  live  rat  sus- 
pended from  the  ceiling  by  its  tail!  He  explained  that 
the  rat  had  committed  treason.  His  terrier  was  leaping 
and  barking  and  the  Grand  Duke  was  lashing  the  rat 
to  death  with  a  jewelled  knout,  his  face  distorted  with 
emotion  until  it  did  not  resemble  anything  human.  He 
cut  the  helpless  rat  into  pieces  stroke  by  stroke. 

He  is  so  unlike  other  people  that  he  cannot  get  on 
with  them.  They  hurt  him.  Therefore,  he  takes  to 
their  visible  images  —  dolls.  He  has  a  passion  for  gems, 
too.  I  do  not  know  that  there  is  anything  else  that  he 
loves  so  well,  except  his  violin,  or  that  gives  him  so  much 
pleasure.  He  plays  with  them,  unset,  for  hours.  They 
satisfy  some  longing  of  his  nature.  It  is  as  if  he  wished 
to  draw  near  to  life,  to  warm  his  heart.  But  he  does 
not  know  how.  He  is  too  timid.  People  hurt  him.  In 
gems  he  feels  the  stored  up  passion  of  life,  the  rever- 
berating reflection  of  things  he  desires,  and  he  loves  them 
accordingly.  They  have  no  tongues,  no  mocking  laugh- 
ter. They  cannot  wound  him.  It  is  pitiful  to  see  him 
sit  and  fondle  them,  with  an -unutterable  look  within  his 
eyes.  It  is  as  if  they  were  prisoned  souls  which  he  divines 
—  like  his  own.  He  is  not  an  imbecile,  although  the 
world  says  he  is.  He  might  have  been  an  artist  musician. 
I  alone  divine  this  power  in  him.  I  perhaps  understand 
him  better  than  any  one  else.  And  yet  it  is  I  whom  he 

54 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

hates !  He  makes  no  concealment  of  his  intention  to  set 
me  aside  the  instant  her  majesty  dies  for  Elizabeth 
Woronzov.  He  says  he  will  do  with  me  what  Peter  I 
did  with  his  wife  —  confine  me  in  a  convent.  He  offers 
me  every  insult.  And  yet  I  pity  him !  To  understand 
is  always  to  pity.  C.  A. 

PARIS. 

How  I  wish  you  could  be  here  freed  from  restraint  of 
your  exalted  position,  wearing  that  boy's  suit  that  be- 
came you  so  well  on  the  nights  we  made  merry  at  the 
house  of  Leo  Narishkin ! 

Where  would  we  go  first?  To  the  shops,  of  course! 
Are  you  not  a  woman?  To  Magimal,  the  jeweller,  at 
the  sign  of  the  Golden  Vase  in  the  Rue  Dauphin,  or 
to  Petit  Dunkerque  on  the  Quai  Conti.  They,  as  you 
know,  are  the  best  in  Paris.  Then,  making  believe  we 
were  servants  in  pay  of  your  Russian  Highness,  we  would 
visit  Bourbon  in  the  Rue  des  Vieux  Augustins  where 
shoes  are  made  for  great  ladies  of  France;  and  to  Bertin, 
designer  of  robes,  and  Legros,  the  hair  dresser.  And 
then,  perhaps,  to  see  the  cosmetics  of  Madame  Martin 
who  can  give  youth  to  age.  But  why  tell  you  this  when 
Petersburg  is  more  French  than  Paris!  Besides,  it  sets 
the  fashions,  too.  It  is  the  most  luxuriously  gowned  city 
in  the  world. 

It  is  amazing  how  Petersburg  changes  nationality. 
Under  Anna  Ivanovna  it  was  a  German  city  where  Ger- 
man was  spoken.  Now  it  is  a  French  city.  The  Russian 
has  a  faculty  for  taking  on  the  character  of  other  races. 
He  has  mental  suppleness.  That  is  why  he  is  such 
a  charming  companion.  He  can  be  anything  at  will. 
The  upper  classes  have  no  racial  characteristics.  At 
least,  they  impress  me  that  way !  Their  knowledge,  their 

55 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

manners,  even  their  vices  are  borrowed.     They  are  bril- 
liant, spoiled  children.     But  they  are  charming  1 

If  you  reproduce  French  fashions  in  Petersburg,  you 
cannot  reproduce  French  art  —  no,  nor  imitate  it.  This 
is  apropos  of  Greuze  whom  I  visited  the  other  day.  I 
knew  him  when  I  was  in  Paris  before.  He  said  he  was 
eager  to  paint  you.  I  told  him  the  time  had  gone  by  for 
that  —  for  his  art.  He  should  have  painted  you  when 
you  first  went  to  Russia,  fifteen  years  ago,  when  you  were 
a  yellow  haired  jonquil-maiden,  with  the  pink  freshness  of 
spring  in  your  cheeks.  Now  you  are  better  suited  for 
the  art  of  Boucher  —  its  sumptuous  soullessness.  That 
is  what  Russia  has  done. 

Art  is  a  wonderful  thing,  Catherine  Alexevna.  They 
who  love  it  can  put  up  better  with  loss  of  everything  else. 
Perhaps  art  was  made  so  that  when  we  are  weary  of  life 
we  can  keep  its  beautiful  moments.  Speaking  of  beauty 
recalls  to  me  Gregory  Orlov.  And  that  reminds  me  that 
it  was  reported  in  the  dispatches  of  the  French  ambassa- 
dor that  Gregory  Orlov  is  enamored  of  your  Russian 
Highness.  I  knew  it  would  come  sooner  or  later!  It 
could  not  help  it!  Like  draws  like.  And  that  reminds 
me,  too,  of  something  else.  Prince  Poniatovsky  was 
chosen  to  go  to  Russia  with  the  English  ambassador,  be- 
cause of  his  social  graces,  with  the  hope  that  he  might 
make  an  impression  upon  you  and  thus  be  helpful  to 
England.  I  know,  of  course,  that  you  are  fond  of  him. 
But  you  are  fonder  still  of  Russia.  This  suggestion  will 
be  all  that  will  be  necessary.  Poniatovsky  is  handsome, 
too.  But  cultivation  has  made  him  effeminate.  Al- 
though he  is  of  noble  birth,  you  will  not  like  him  as  I  fear 
that  you  will  Gregory  Orlov,  who  has  neither  wealth, 
position,  nor  nobility  of  blood  to  boast  of.  But  in  giv- 
ing him  nothing  nature  gave  him  all. 

56 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

A  witty  Frenchman  said  something  the  other  day  which 
I  must  repeat  to  you.  He  said  the  sharpness  of  Freder- 
ick the  Great's  tongue  was  more  responsible  for  his 
troubles  than  the  sharpness  of  his  sword.  When  Vol- 
taire's History  of  Peter  the  Great  was  shown  to  him 
he  exclaimed,  "  Why  should  any  one  wish  to  write  a 
history  of  Siberian  wolves  and  bears!  "  He  has  said 
sharper  things  than  that  about  the  morals  of  her  Majesty. 
They  have  been  repeated  to  her.  That  is  why  she  is 
determined  to  destroy  him.  If  he  would  bridle  his 
tongue,  other  people  would  sheathe  their  swords. 

I  am  convinced  from  a  thousand  things  individually 
too  insignificant  to  repeat  that  the  position  of  your  High- 
ness is  most  dangerous.  Do  not  neglect  anything  that 
can  make  for  safety!  Life  can  be  lost  but  once. 

Your  mother  is  saying  unwise  and  doing  foolish  things 
just  as  usual,  and,  incidentally,  piling  up  thousands  of 
rubles  of  debts  since  the  Empress  cut  off  her  allowance 
from  the  crown. 

N.  M. 

PETERSBURG. 

My  dear  Nicholas:  Yesterday,  fate  kindly  permitting 
in  the  absence  from  the  city  of  the  Grand  Duke,  and  the 
occupation  of  the  vice-chancellor  with  her  Majesty,  Count 
Bestushev  spent  two  hours  of  the  dark  winter  day  with 
me.  This  old  man  is  almost  a  mother  to  me.  In  one 
way  he  is  in  truth.  It  is  he  who  has  trained  me.  He 
took  me  in  hand  when  I  was  fifteen.  And  he  has  the 
strangest  influence  over  me !  I  wish  I  could  explain.  I 
do  not  know  how.  I  have  tried  and  tried. 

If  it  were  possible  to  love  with  the  spirit,  with  the  soul, 
leaving  the  body,  its  desires,  its  caresses,  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, I  should  say  that  I  loved  him.  But  how  could  that 

57 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

be,  so  strange,  so  unnatural !  It  is  nature's  impossibility. 
And  I  feel  —  I  think  —  that  he  loves  me  in  that  same  in- 
explicable way.  And  there  is  not  a  page  of  my  life  that 
is  hidden  from  him.  It  would  be  useless  if  I  wished  to 
try  to  conceal  anything  from  that  penetrating  intelligence. 
And  he  is  old!  He  belongs  to  the  age  of  Peter  the 
Great! 

Can  it  be  that  he  loves  me  for  my  mind,  my  soul,  and 
reckons  of  no  consequence  the  sins  of  the  body?  Could 
a  man  be  great  enough  for  that?  I  have  told  you  of  my 
growing  difficulty  in  grasping  the  physical  certainty  of 
facts;  how  realities  are  slipping  from  me.  His  pres- 
ence counteracts  this.  Or,  better,  it  gives  the  substitute 
of  mental  stability.  The  instant  he  enters  a  room  I  am 
more  dominant,  fearless,  than  nature  made  me.  I  feel 
that  there  are  no  impossibilities  for  me.  And  he,  he 
grows  perceptibly  younger.  He  enters  into  the  youth 
of  me.  My  Nicholas,  I  have  really  seen  this  marvelous 
man  throw  off  age  like  a  garment  and  become  young. 
And  I  have  seen  him  grow  shriveled  and  old  as  at  the 
waving  of  a  magician's  wand,  until  it  seemed  that  he 
might  have  been  born  at  the  time  of  the  building  of  the 
Pyramids.  When  he  is  with  me  I  lose  this  pitiful  feeling 
for  suffering  and  weakness  which  is  characteristic  of  me. 
I  see  with  his  eyes.  I  feel  as  he  feels.  I  love,  then,  the 
pomp  of  armies.  I  love  the  picturesqueness  of  cruelty 
and  the  splendor  of  blood.  And  yet  I  know  that  it  is 
not  really  I  who  love  any  of  these  things.  It  is  another 
influence  thrown  over  my  clear  and  personless  mind, 
where  unknown  souls  rise  and  set  like  mysterious 
moons. 

I  wish  you  could  have  been  there  to  have  heard  him 
talk,  you  who  are  interested  in  different  phases  of  life! 
He  says  —  Count  Bestushev  —  that  this  is  the  last  great 

58 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

age  of  the  world;  great  in  the  sense  of  the  past.  They 
who  come  after  us  will  not  see  life  like  this.  They  will 
not  dare  to  live.  Personality  will  be  a  crime.  They 
will  be  fettered  by  conventions.  But  now  is  the  day  of 
the  individual!  Never  has  its  sway  been  so  far  reach- 
ing. Religions  have  lost  their  primitive  power.  Kings 
and  emperors  are  no  longer  divine.  But  after  us  —  here 
he  became  emphatic  in  his  earnestness  and  his  deep  set 
eyes  glowed  sternly  —  after  us,  all  sorts  of  mental  fads 
and  culture  schemes,  and  theories  for  soul-development 
will  rush  in  and  cover  up  personality.  In  accordance 
with  these  theories  each  one  will  try  to  force  himself 
into  a  ridiculous  ideal  of  commonplace  perfection.  The 
natures  of  men  will  lose  range.  Everyone  will  be  com- 
monplace. But  now !  —  what  grace  I  France  has  made 
folly  an  art !  What  love !  What  hate !  In  short,  what 
a  range  of  life !  In  the  after  time  people  will  be  as  much 
alike  as  if  they  had  been  cut  out  with  the  same  cake 
cutter.  Never  again  will  there  be  such  daring,  such 
fancy,  such  repartee !  We  use  our  tongues  to  keep  our 
heads  on.  They  must  be  nimble  and  fine. 

"  I  wish  you  to  remember,  Catherine  Alexevna  (if  I 
should  die  and  not  have  the  chance  to  tell  you  again) , 
that  this  is  a  choice  period  of  time,  and  that  after  us  will 
come  a  spirit  of  commercialism  that  will  make  life  dull, 
and  people  commonplace. 

"  Louis  XV  has  said  it,  '  Apres  nous  le  deluge'  And 
this  is  what  he  meant.  Now  we  would  laugh  in  the  face 
of  a  king  if  he  were  stupid,  even  if  his  blood  were  the 
bluest  Bourbon.  But  then  —  then  —  in  this  after  time 
they  will  pet  a  pig  if  he  have  a  penny.  The  time  that 
comes  after  us  will  be  like  a  play  I  read  when  I  was  in 
England,  in  the  service  of  good  King  George,  a  play  by 
an  English  playwright  called  Shakespeare.  The  name 

59 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

of  it  is  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  It  tells  how  a 
woman,  whose  eyes  were  blinded  by  love,  lost  her  heart 
to  a  donkey.  Yes,  your  Royal  Highness !  —  he  ex- 
claimed to  me  —  that  is  true !  The  world  that  comes 
after  us  will  have  its  true,  normal  eyes  blinded  by  fads 
and  theories  of  reform,  until  it  falls  down  and  worships 
the  donkey  of  commonplaceness."  (There  is  no  transla- 
tion of  this  play  into  our  language.  I  am  answering  your 
question  in  advance,  you  see.) 

Whenever  he  leaves  me,  Nicholas,  after  a  conversa- 
tion like  this,  it  is  as  if  I  walk  on  air.  I  am  triumphant, 
dominant,  joyous!  That  unconquered  soul  of  him  en- 
tered into  me.  It  must  be  that  he  loves  me.  How  can 
it  be  otherwise  when  in  return  for  all  he  gives,  he  asks 
nothing?  Could  such  a  thing  be,  think  you,  Nicholas, 
that  people  could  love  each  other  with  their  brains,  a 
man  and  a  woman?  Did  he  caress  me  with  his  mind  as 
he  sat  there  those  dark  winter  hours,  and  I  did  not  know 
it?  His  devotion  is  unshakable.  For  me  he  does  things 
that  jeopardize  the  fulfillment  of  his  ambition. 

And  yet,  is  it  good?  Is  it  good?  Is  it  he  who  is 
making  the  monster  out  of  me  whom  Europe  gossips  of 
and  condemns,  but  does  not  understand?  Has  he  sepa- 
rated, so  I  can  not  reunite  them,  the  heart  and  the  head? 
Has  he  made  me  two  separate  women,  one  of  whom 
nothing  can  take  away  from  him  —  nothing,  nothing; 
his  so  thoroughly  he  can  laugh  at  my  lovers  in  scorn? 
Sometimes  for  days,  Nicholas,  after  he  leaves  me  I  live 
on  in  this  mad  frenzy  of  the  brain.  I  dominate  every- 
thing with  which  I  come  in  contact.  And  then  —  then  — 
I  find  that  I  am  weary,  a  peculiar  weariness  that  is  not 
exactly  physical.  Then  I  desire  another  kind  of  life. 
But  when  I  get  it,  I  cannot  enjoy  it.  There  is  his  revenge. 
I  cannot  make  it  real.  That  is  why  I  need  you  so, 

60 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

Nicholas,  long  for  you,  you  who  in  face  and  soul  belong 
to  the  race  who  have  seen  life  clearest.  There  are  days 
when  I  try  to  keep  your  face  before  me  in  my  mind.  Its 
passionate  warmth  in  this  misty  north  warms  me  as  a  fire 
warms  the  body  when  one  is  chilly.  I  long  to  hear  again 
your  joyous  laughter!  Surely,  it  will  not  be  long  now 
before  you  return  to  Russia  and  to  me! 

C.  A. 

PARIS. 

I  have  played  for  the  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs, 
Abbe  Bernis,  a  number  of  times  lately.  And  for  him 
alone !  He  is  one  of  the  first  courtiers,  with  the  stamp  of 
the  ancien  regime.  He  is  fond  of  music  and  more  capa- 
ble of  judging  it  than  most  men  of  affairs.  He  is  really 
un  pen  connaisseur. 

The  last  time  I  was  there  he  talked  with  me  after  the 
playing  was  over  and  we  spent  an  hour  together  happily 
enough.  We  talked  of  Russia  because  it  is  a  subject 
of  which  every  one  talks.  His  ideas  are  original.  He 
says  that  Russia  became  civilized  so  quickly  that  she  is 
suffering  from  vertigo.  She  has  done  in  a  few  years 
what  it  took  Europe  centuries  to  do  —  since  the  Dark 
Ages,  in  fact.  This  quick  change  from  barbarism  to 
civilization  has  destroyed  the  normal.  As  a  result,  in 
Russia  to-day,  we  see  excess  —  a  debauch  of  immensity. 
Nothing  is  done  in  moderation.  Its  royal  palace  —  the 
one  which  is  just  being  finished  —  is  the  largest  in  Europe. 
Its  furnishings  are  the  most  costly.  They  put  Versailles 
to  shame.  Its  drawing  rooms  are  twice  the  height  and 
length  of  Parisian  drawing  rooms.  Its  banquets  are  the 
most  sumptuous;  its  gems  the  largest  and  most  numer- 
ous. Nowhere  has  man  lived  in  such  reasonless  mag- 
nificence. Nowhere  can  be  found  such  astonishing  volup- 

61 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

tuaries.  Nowhere  have  they  been  so  prodigal  of  gold. 
Nowhere  has  man  so  disregarded  law. 

Then  he  gave  expression  to  his  pet  theory  —  which  is 
justified  by  fact  —  that  the  great  Russians  of  this  cen- 
tury (those  of  pure  Russian  blood),  live  but  a  little 
while. 

Peter  the  Great  was  only  fifty-three  when  he  died. 
But  he  was  an  old  man,  wornout  and  exhausted.  He  did 
not  permit  himself  but  three  hours'  sleep  a  night.  The 
Empress  Elizabeth  is  in  the  forties.  A  young  woman 
as  years  count !  Yet  she  is  dying  of  premature  old  age. 
Count  Alexis  Razumovsky,  her  morganatic  husband,  that 
exquisite  rococo  Russian  courtier,  with  his  faded,  pastel 
graces  (of  whom  returning  travelers  tell),  cannot  be  far 
in  the  fifties.  But  he  is  as  feeble  as  if  he  carried  a  cen- 
tury upon  his  shoulders.  He  is  swaddled  in  furs  —  in 
the  summer  time.  Yet  he  shivers,  he  is  so  old.  Count 
Bestushev  is  still  active  despite  his  years,  I  grant.  That 
is  because  of  his  English  blood,  a  calmer  —  shall  I  say 
duller?  —  stock. 

But  look  at  General  Aprakin!  He  impresses  one  as 
utterly  burnt  out.  He  is  white  and  waxen.  He  has 
not  strength  to  laugh  or  talk.  That  is  the  way  they  are 
in  Russia  to-day,  if  they  happen  to  live  past  forty  — 
premature  old  age  or  death. 

The  reason  he  gives  is  interesting.  Your  Royal  High- 
ness will  appreciate  it.  He  says,  for  example,  whenever 
you  cut  down  the  primeval  forests  of  the  north,  at  once 
there  spring  up  to  take  their  places,  fields  of  flaming 
flowers  —  in  some  places  called  fire-flowers.  They  grow 
to  unusual  height.  They  bloom  richly.  They  are  of 
brilliant  magenta  color.  They  possess  charm.  They 
possess  beauty.  But  they  do  not  last!  They  have  soft 
stalks.  They  lack  strength  —  resistance.  They  wilt. 

62 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

They  wither.  That  is  what  the  Russian  of  to-day  is  — 
an  exotic  of  life.  The  atmosphere  is  exhausting. 
Neither  brain  nor  body  can  withstand  it.  That  is  why 
life  is  poured  out  like  driven  rain.  But  they  are  beau- 
tiful and  brilliant  while  they  last  —  these  fine  flowers  of 
your  Russian  race.  We  like  them !  They  appeal  to  our 
artistic  sense. 

Then,  he  spoke  of  you,  your  different  race,  and  a 
quality  which  he  termed  sphinxlike  that  has  puzzled  the 
diplomats.  None  of  them  knows  where  to  place  you. 
That  is  well!  Keep  them  in  the  dark  until  you  step  to 
the  front  and  fight  for  your  rights.  My  impression  is 
that  he  does  not  like  you.  You  are  an  unknown  quantity 
which  he  fears.  I  hear  he  is  making  efforts  for  the 
French  ambassador  to  lend  you  money  instead  of  Eng- 
land. You  see  he  hopes  to  influence  you  through  your 
debts. 

In  every  salon  of  Paris  your  name  is  coupled  with  that 
of  Orlov.  Whenever  I  hear  it,  it  is  as  if  a  dagger  en- 
tered my  heart.  Yet  I  knew  from  the  first  it  must  be ! 
It  has  grieved  me  inexpressibly  to  be  away  from  you,  be- 
cause I  felt  this  must  happen.  But  perhaps  along  with 
happy  memories  of  the  past,  you  will  preserve  a  sort  of 
gratitude  to  me  because  I  have  tried  to  serve  you.  You 
will  estimate  the  folly  in  the  heart  of  a  man  when  I  tell 
you  that  despite  the  new  star  that  has  arisen  upon  the 
horizon  of  Russia,  I  am  counting  the  days  that  must 
pass  before  I  can  set  out  for  Petersburg.  There  are 
days  when  I  think  only  of  the  past  and  the  present  has 
no  value. 

One  of  the  things  that  attracts  you  in  Orlov,  besides  his 
beauty,  is  one  of  the  things  that  attracts  you  in  the  race 
—  that  mysterious  Russian  soul,  which  you  understand 
better  than  anyone  else  in  the  world.  But  I  do  not  be- 

63 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

lieve  —  pardon  me  this,  your  Highness !  —  let  its  sin- 
cerity be  its  excuse  for  being  and  my  proven  devotion  to 
yourself  —  that  he  can  love  and  understand  you,  the 
woman,  as  I  do.  I  will  tell  you  why  when  I  reach 
Russia.  I  will  prove  it  to  your  Highness ! 

No  matter  how  Fate  may  heap  honors,  there  is  love  — 
simple,  human  love  the  heart  must  have.  To  be  able  to 
love  is  proof  of  genius.  The  heart  has  title  to  nobility. 
Herein  lies  my  hope  that  you  cannot  forget  me  while  I 
am  away  from  you,  dreaming,  as  I  do  daily,  of  the  first 
gay  moment  of  joy  when  we  shall  be  alone  together. 

N.  M. 

PETERSBURG. 

Dear  Nicholas  Murievich:  Although  I  have  not 
acknowledged  it,  I  am  mindful  of  your  memento. 

Things  grow  perceptibly  worse  as  regards  my  posi- 
tion, more  dangerous,  and  less  easy  to  maintain  with- 
out giving  hint  that  I  am  aware  of  danger.  My  servants, 
my  friends,  except  Princess  Dashkov  and  Count  Bes- 
tushev,  are  being  exiled.  Count  Bestushev  owes  his  per- 
manency—  as  indeed  he  has  always  —  to  the  fact  that 
amid  her  caprices  and  hysteria,  her  Majesty  knows  that 
he  is  good  for  Russia.  But  she  has  never  liked  him! 
And  just  now  I  am  in  great  disfavor.  The  only  thing 
that  can  help  me  materially  is  a  personal  interview  with 
her  Majesty,  who,  at  heart,  has  always  liked  me.  You 
know  how  difficult  it  is  to  see  her  alone  at  any  time,  and 
more  especially  now  since  her  illness. 

I  must  tell  you  what  happened  last  night.  Leo  Narish- 
kin  has  taken  up  the  habit  of  pausing  before  my  door  and 
meowing  like  a  cat.  When  I  meow  back,  he  comes  in. 

Last  night  between  six  and  seven  he  meowed.  I  let 
him  in.  He  brought  a  greeting  from  the  wife  of  his 

64 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

elder  brother,  said  that  she  was  ill  and  added,  "  You 
ought  to  pay  her  a  visit." 

"  But  how  can  I?  'I  may  not  go  out  without  permis- 
sion." 

"  I  will  take  you  there  if  you  wish." 

"  You  are  crazy !  You  would  be  thrown  into  a  dun- 
geon and  I  would  suffer  all  the  unpleasantnesses  in  the 
world." 

"  No  one  shall  know  a  thing  about  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  will  be  back  in  an  hour  after  you.  The  Grand 
Duke  will  be  at  supper." 

For  some  time  I  have  remained  in  my  room  at  this  hour 
under  pretext  that  I  did  not  care  to  eat.  The  Grand 
Duke  sits  at  table  until  midnight,  gets  drunk  and  falls 
asleep.  (Since  the  birth  of  Paul  Petrovich  we  have  not 
slept  in  the  same  room.) 

Leo  Narishkin  departed.  I  called  my  old  Calmuck. 
I  told  him  to  bring  me  a  suit  of  men's  clothes.  This 
Calmuck  of  mine  never  opens  his  mouth.  It  is  harder  to 
make  him  talk  than  to  make  other  people  keep  silence. 
At  the  appointed  hour  Leo  Narishkin  was  back  and 
meowed  at  my  door.  I  let  him  in.  Through  the  little 
entrance  salon  we  reached  the  exit  and  were  not  seen  by 
any  one.  There  we  got  into  a  carriage.  We  surprised 
Anna  Nikitishna  who  had  not  expected  us.  Gregory  and 
Alexis  Orlov  were  there  and  Princess  Dashkov.  She, 
too,  in  men's  clothes.  She  looked  just  like  a  sixteen- 
year-old  boy.  She  is  not  much  older. 

We  had  the  gayest  evening !  When  it  was  time  to  go, 
Gregory  Orlov  sent  for  his  sledge.  We  got  into  it  and 
drove  to  the  Dresden  Woman's,  who,  as  you  know,  keeps 
a  gambling  resort  for  men  of  the  upper  class  and  women 
of  the  theater.  All  the  Orlov  brothers  were  there  to 

65 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

protect  me  in  case  anyone  should  penetrate  my  disguise. 
They  looked  like  an  army  of  Holstein  giants.  Alexis 
Orlov,  who  is  the  strongest  and  the  tallest  man  in  Russia, 
stood  beside  me.  It  was  at  this  same  Dresden  Woman's 
where  he  got  that  gash  across  the  cheek  and  took  the 
name  every  one  gives  him  —  le  balafre. 

We  played  biribis  with  a  crowd  of  young  bloods. 
Gregory  and  I  won  thousands  of  rubles.  I  had  the  touch 
of  Midas.  Everything  turned  to  gold.  That  put  Greg- 
ory in  great  spirits.  He  always  needs  money. 

I  heard  myself  and  the  Grand  Duke  discussed.  All 
are  on  my  side  because  of  my  devotion  to  the  Orthodox 
Church.  What  else  do  you  suppose  I  heard?  That  they 
like  me  because  my  sins  are  Russian !  I  laughed  and  said 
to  Gregory,  "  By  their  sins  ye  shall  know  them  —  the 
Russians." 

There  was  a  dancing  girl  there  from  Little  Russia 
called  Maschuta,  who  was  so  wildly  beautiful  I  could  not 
take  my  eyes  from  her  face.  I  hear  a  good  deal  of  talk 
of  her.  I  saw  Gregory  Orlov  look  at  her  again  and 
again.  She  is  very  small  —  not  larger  than  a  child  — 
and  round  and  muscular.  But  so  exquisite  are  her  pro- 
portions one  does  not  realize  she  is  below  normal  in  size. 
She  does  not  wear  stays  but  her  body  is  as  perfectly 
formed  as  if  she  did.  Her  eyes  are  pale  —  gray  I 
think  —  but  they  blacken  and  dilate  and  sometimes  turn 
green  like  a  cat's.  Her  skin  is  so  dark  it  reminds  one  of 
the  negro  races;  but  it  is  underflushed  with  red.  The 
remarkable  thing  about  her,  however,  is  her  teeth.  They 
are  more  brilliantly  white  than  any  I  ever  saw.  They 
are  a  perpetual  lure.  And  the  light  runs  across  them  in  a 
hard,  cruel  way.  She  moves  as  if  she  were  shod  with 
velvet.  The  tones  of  her  voice  are  soft  and  strange  like 
her  movements.  Never  could  one  forget  her  teeth  or 

66 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

the  vigorous  litheness  of  her  body.  For  an  instant  I  hated 
her.  I  would  rather  be  an  irresistible  woman,  Nicholas 
Murievich,  than  Empress !  She  is  like  an  exotic  fruit, 
but  not  the  pale  kind  we  grow  here  under  glass. 

She  sang  to  her  own  accompaniment  on  the  balalaika, 
one  of  the  songs  of  the  Cossacks,  full  of  plaintive  minors 
that  floated  indistinctly  as  smoke.  Then,  she  danced  a 
dance  of  Little  Russia,  a  dance  of  quick  pauses  that  al- 
most stop  the  breath,  and  crisp,  startling  movement. 
When  she  finished,  I  saw  a  look  in  Gregory  Orlov's  face 
that  I  never  saw  there  before.  She  stared  at  me  so  in- 
tently it  was  as  if  she  suspected  something.  These  gipsies 
have  the  divining  power  of  animals,  some  sensitiveness 
that  we  who  live  in  houses  have  lost. 

There  was  danger,  too,  that  night  at  the  Dresden 
Woman's!  The  spies  of  all  nations  were  there. 

From  the  Dresden  Woman's  we  went  on  to  Gregory 
Orlov's  rooms.  He  wished  to  find  out  how  I  am  pro- 
gressing with  my  fencing.  I  showed  him!  I  have 
learned  the  coup  de  Jesuit.  Once  I  twisted  the  sword 
from  his  hand.  There  is  some  glory  in  that!  Gregory 
is  no  mean  swordsman. 

I  reached  the  palace  in  time  for  breakfast.  My  old 
Calmuck  was  waiting  for  me,  and  the  Grand  Duke  was 
so  drunk  he  could  not  get  up.  So  everything  turned  out 
well.  Or,  as  Count  Bestushev  says  —  he  learned  this  in 
England, — "  All's  well  that  ends  well."  That  is  better, 
is  it  not?  We  can  safely  have  these  parties  twice  a  week 
now,  since  everything  is  at  sixes  and  sevens  because  of 
her  Majesty. 

I  hope  you  will  be  here  soon  to  be  with  us. 

C.  A. 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

PARIS. 

A  new  fear  has  taken  possession  of  me.  I  feel  that 
you  do  not  appreciate  the  nearness  of  the  danger  that 
threatens,  that  you  do  not  realize  life  is  at  stake;  that 
if  you  do  not  win,  there  is  death  or  prison  or  the  convent 
ahead.  Do  not  devote  too  much  time  to  amusements. 
Do  not  let  them  make  you  forget  the  noose  is  drawing 
closer.  Do  not  let  easy  pleasures  of  the  moment  lead 
you  into  carelessness. 

I  know  it  is  your  belief  —  practice  —  to  make  life  al- 
ways the  same,  to  turn  toward  it  the  bright  face  of  hap- 
piness, to  live  it  up  gayly  to  the  last  moment,  without 
worry  or  fret  for  the  things  we  cannot  change.  That  is 
brave.  But  this  is  time  when  you  must  be  two  women. 
While  living  as  usual  so  that  no  one  can  see  a  change 
in  your  conduct,  you  must  be  on  the  alert,  making  each 
day  some  helpful  addition  to  the  plans  that  will  give 
you  victory.  You  have  against  you  in  the  Prussian  ruler 
—  unless  you  yield  to  his  demands  —  one  of  the  most 
unscrupulous  of  men.  My  heart  fears  for  you  and  trem- 
bles, because  so  many  long  miles  separate  me  from  you 
whom  I  would  gladly  shield  with  my  life. 

Love  can  make  us  do  wonderful  things,  Catherine 
Alexevna,  things  that  surprise  ourselves.  I  am  glad 
now  that  Orlov  is  with  you,  because  for  the  furtherance 
of  his  own  selfish  ends  he  will  shield  you. 

Your  letters,  which  are  filled  with  accounts  of  merry- 
making and  the  diversions  of  court,  make  me  fear  lest 
you  are  forgetting,  and  need  me  near  to  keep  whispering 
memento!  Not  every  one  has  an  opportunity  to  try  for 
a  crown  —  and  that  opportunity  but  once. 

N.  M. 


68 


PETERSBURG. 

One  day,  or  rather  evening,  last  week,  I  held  court  for 
her  Majesty.  This  does  not  mean  that  I  am  reinstated 
to  favor.  Not  by  any  means !  But  merely  that  court 
had  to  be  held  since  life  and  its  duties  go  on,  and  legally 
the  responsibility  fell  on  me. 

That  day  I  spent  the  last  hour  or  two  of  the  limited 
light  out-of-doors,  driving.  I  felt  need  of  space,  quiet. 
I  am  learning  to  love  the  winters  in  Russia,  Nicholas 
Murievich,  and  to  enjoy  the  cold.  It  gives  me  a  sense 
of  well-being.  It  makes  me  feel  that  the  strength  of  my 
body  is  inexhaustible.  I  crave  physical  exertions  that 
are  wearying.  I  have  a  desire  to  put  my  mind  to  sleep 
and  let  my  body  live  on  like  a  Titan.  It  is  exhilarating, 
this  sense  of  physical  power.  I  must  make  the  most  of 
it.  Winter  is  now  slipping  toward  the  verge  of  spring. 

When  it  is  at  its  height  and  the  cold  intensifies  day  by 
day,  the  light  grows  brighter,  thinner,  sharper,  harder, 
more  diamond-like,  until  midday  is  the  color  of  steel. 
Above,  in  the  air,  as  far  as  one  can  see,  there  are  moving 
substances  like  frost,  glittering  points  of  ice  —  spiculae 
—  that  weave  and  weave.  Winter  is  a  splendid  tragedy 
that  bears  death  upon  its  wings.  And  the  silence  of  these 
winters,  Nicholas  Murievich,  is  appalling.  I  love  that, 
too!  It  makes  me  feel  that  I  am  the  only  one  alive. 
The  silence  is  so  great  it  makes  sound  unthinkable.  Even 
the  wind  is  still.  It  is  afraid  of  its  own  voice.  It  is  so 
silent,  Nicholas  Murievich,  it  is  as  if  sound  perished 
ages  ago.  The  cold  is  like  silver.  But  the  snow  does 
not  even  shine.  It  grows  whiter,  whiter,  more  dead, 
more  opaque.  It  is  like  the  dream  of  an  Arctic  dawn 
before  color  was.  I  feel  so  very  far  away  here,  Nicholas 
Murievich,  far  from  European  life  and  civilization;  so 
far  it  does  not  seem  that  a  crime  would  be  a  crime  as  it 

69 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

would  be  in  other  places.  When  the  cold  is  great,  one 
cannot  feel  a  wound.  One  cannot  feel  blood  flow.  The 
fury  of  the  north  dulls  the  sensibility  of  pain.  Some- 
times, it  makes  one  desire  it  to  satisfy  some  unnatural 
longing  of  the  soul.  The  winter  makes  me  feel  that  I 
am  living  upon  an  uninhabited  earth.  If  I  do  not  get 
rid  of  this  sensation,  I  shall  do  some  dreadful  thing  some 
day,  Nicholas  Murievich,  and  never  know  it,  because 
I  shall  be  so  far  away  from  it. 

As  you  know,  there  is  nothing  interesting  in  the  coun- 
try adjacent  to  Petersburg  except  monotony.  That  is  so 
great  under  the  snow  that  it  is  magnificent.  Petersburg, 
that  day  while  the  light  lasted,  was  a  mass  of  smoky 
violet,  heightened  by  the  gold  tower  points  of  the  Admir- 
alty and  the  gold  lace  crosses  of  the  church  of  Our  Lady 
of  Kasan.  When  I  glimpsed  it  first  coming  back,  after 
the  day  had  dropped,  it  was  an  ugly  blot  upon  the  snow. 
But  when  I  entered  it  under  the  faint  moon  when  the 
streets  were  deserted  and  the  night  had  come,  it  was  a 
fairy  city  of  faded  silver,  of  free,  fine,  splendid  lines,  and 
silent  streets. 

I  enjoyed  the  court  that  day  because  of  something  you 
said  to  me  once;  that  a  court  scene  in  Russia  was  like 
a  comic  opera  in  Paris.  I  thought  of  it  just  that  way 
that  day,  a  comic  opera  in  a  Louis  XV  setting.  I  played 
my  part,  too,  as  if  I  were  upon  the  stage  in  Paris,  and 
you  were  looking  on  applauding.  If  it  had  been  real,  I 
could  not  have  done  it  so  well.  But  it  was  not!  So  I 
had  the  best  time  in  the  world  trying  to  make  it  so. 

Everyone  came,  even  old  Count  Alexis  Razumovsky, 
the  life-long  lover  of  her  Majesty.  His  eyes  are  like 
sad,  dull,  black  satin  that  is  worn  and  old.  And  they 
never  smile.  But  he  has  faded  remnants  of  beauty  of  a 
languid,  tropic  kind.  Subanski,  the  Adonis  of  the  Hus- 

70 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

sars,  was  a  golden  beauty,  and  at  the  same  time  a  walking 
fashion-plate.  He  carried  an  enormous  muff  of  sable  and 
wore  massive  gems  in  his  ears.  He  is  a  relative  of  Prince 
Carl  Radziwill,  "  Panni  Kochanku,"  and  he  is  interested 
that  every  one  should  know  it.  Count  Bestushev  was 
there  dressed  in  black  without  a  jewel  or  a  decoration. 
He  hovered  silently  in  one  corner  like  a  black  and  omi- 
nous raven.  He  is  so  thin,  he  is  like  a  spirit  draped  in 
flesh.  But  you  can  feel  his  presence !  He  does  not  need 
to  speak,  this  old  man  whom  Europe  obeys.  Count 
Esterhazy  was  present  with  a  sneer  upon  his  lips,  and 
Marquis  de  1'Hopital  with  his  soft,  insinuating  gallan- 
tries. I  hate  them  both!  Leo  Narishkin  was  smiles 
and  merriment.  I  know  he  longed  to  whisper  in  my  ear 
and  ask  when  we  could  have  another  little  party. 

There  were  beauties  from  southern  Russia  whom  you 
would  have  enjoyed,  pale  and  sweet  looking.  They  have 
not  smelled  fresh  air  for  months.  Imagine !  They 
wore  the  latest  gauzes  from  Paris  and  their  French  was 
perfect.  But  in  their  eyes  the  Occident  and  the  Orient 
met. 

There  was  a  Finnish  woman  who  gave  me  pleasure. 
She  had  faded  blue-enamel  eyes  and  corn-silk  hair. 
Elizabeth  Woronzov  looked  fatter  and  shorter  and 
darker  than  usual,  and  more  stupid,  too.  Countess  Bruce 
was  with  her.  Her  cheeks  were  very  red  and  her  bright 
eyes  were  dancing  with  malice. 

There  were  little  round,  fat-bellied,  full-bearded  mer- 
chants from  Great  Novgorod  with  thick  golden  rings 
dangling  from  their  ears.  (The  Empress  is  mother  of 
the  people.  On  court  days  all  can  come.) 

There  were  men  from  Kishinev  in  coarse,  white  woolen 
caftans;  grumbling  Finlanders;  a  Khan  in  saffron  yellow; 
Lithuanian  religionists;  white  faced  people  from  the  Bal- 


tic  provinces ;  great  farmers  from  villages  by  the  Volga ; 
broad,  felt  hatted  Moldavians;  melancholy  Poles  wear- 
ing the  zupan;  Hungarians  in  short,  braided  coats;  brown 
and  wiry  Tartars;  Cossacks  from  the  Don  and  the  prov- 
ince of  Orenburg,  with  their  rich  beauty  in  which  there  is 
almost  a  reminiscence  of  Greece;  yellow-faced,  slant-eyed 
Calmucks;  turbanned  Mussulmans;  Turkish  Janizzaries; 
soft-eyed  Syrians;  soldiers  in  corn-flower  blue  mantles; 
Circassians,  Siberians;  black  robed  Jesuits;  sober  coated 
Englishmen;  in  short,  two  hemispheres  were  represented. 
There  were  dandies  with  the  corrupt  exquisiteness  of 
the  ancien  regime;  our  old  noblesse,  showing  the  blend- 
ing of  the  Russian  and  the  Asiatic,  wearing  upon  their 
breasts  all  the  orders  of  Russia,  noticeable  among  which 
were  the  Order  of  Saint  Andrew  upon  a  ribbon  of  blue, 
and  the  circular,  diamond  star  of  Alexander  Nevsky. 
There  were  a  few  women  of  old  Russia,  genuine  Mus- 
covites, who  can  remember  the  terem  which  the  great 
Peter  abolished.  Modernite  has  not  affected  them. 
They  have  the  monumental  calm  of  marble.  I  never 
saw  the  Grand  Duke  look  uglier  —  or  more  pitiful.  He 
wore  a  three-pointed  Prussian  hat  with  a  Spanish  feather 
stuck  in  the  side  of  it;  bottes  fortes;  and  trousers  as  tight 
as  his  skin,  so  his  poor  little  legs  looked  thinner  than 
ever.  He  seemed  more  flat  chested  and  insignificant  in 
size  than  usual.  His  smallpox  scars  were  prominent. 
That  old  twitching  of  the  facial  muscles,  which  he  in- 
herited from  Peter  the  Great,  made  him  look  one  mo- 
ment as  if  he  were  giggling  inanely,  and  the  next  as  if 
he  were  ready  to  cry.  His  little  round  gray,  foolish  eyes 
were  dashed  with  fretful  tears.  He  did  not  have  any 
memory  nor  any  presence  of  mind,  but  just  teetered  aim- 
lessly about  on  those  twisting  legs.  I  could  have  cried 
for  sheer  pity.  And  he  is  the  descendant  of  Charles  XII 

72 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

of  Sweden  and  Peter  the  Great  of  Russia,  two  of  the 
world's  most  daring  imperial  generals.  What  a  jest! 
What  a  pitiful  jest! 

There  were  plenty  of  suave  and  insinuating  courtiers. 
There  were  statesmen  whom  all  the  courts  of  Europe  had 
trained,  and  gray,  battle-scarred  warriors  who  learned 
their  trade  in  the  school  of  Aprakin  and  Marshal  Miin- 
nich.  We  need  not  be  ashamed  of  our  statesmen  at  our 
entry  among  the  nations. 

Our  young  bloods  are  carrying  dress  to  extremes  just 
now.  The  expenditure  of  the  court  set  is  fabulous.  The 
young  men  paint  their  faces,  load  themselves  with  gems 
like  women,  and  keep  their  hands  protected  by  muffs. 
They  remind  one  of  the  courtiers  of  decadent  Rome  whom 
luxury  had  weakened.  Many  parallels  indeed  might  be 
drawn  between  this  Russia  of  ours  and  Rome  of  the 
decadence.  It  was  Count  Bestushev  who  said  this  after 
the  court  was  over.  The  comparison  pleases  him.  He 
toys  with  it  frequently.  There  is  the  same  disconcerting 
combination  of  the  important  and  the  unimportant;  the 
same  unreckoning  luxury;  the  same  breaking  of  custom- 
ary barriers;  and  the  same  trembling  presentiment  of 
change  to  come.  He  likes  it.  He  enjoys  the  shadows 
that  are  flitting  over  the  age.  He  is  glad  he  has  lived 
to  see  them.  He  wishes  he  could  see  the  end. 

He  said,  as  he  stood  in  his  corner  watching  the  crowd, 
he  amused  himself  by  comparing  me  with  the  rulers  of 
Russia.  They  of  the  past  were  superstitious  and  fanat- 
ical, while  I  am  serene,  pleasure  loving,  pagan.  I  am 
what  he  has  made  me.  There  was  pride  in  his  voice 
as  he  said  this. 

After  the  crowd  had  gone  we  were  alone  together  for 
a  while  in  the  spacious  room  where  a  myriad  of  dying 
candles  were  fretting  the  floor  with  shadows. 

73 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

"  It  will  not  be  long,  Catherine  Alexevna,  before  you 
and  I  will  be  alone  in  Russia  —  just  as  we  are  in  this 
room  to-night  —  and  a  myriad  of  faiths  " —  here  he 
waved  his.  frail  hands  toward  the  fluttering  candles  — 
"  will  try  to  fetter  us  with  the  fading  superstitions  of 
the  Muscovite.  Ah !  —  Catherine  Alexevna  — " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  stood  beside  me 
in  silence.  For  those  moments  of  silence,  Nicholas 
Murievich,  I  felt  the  greatest  sensation  I  have  felt  in 
my  life.  It  was  as  if  something  bound  the  soul  of  me 
to  the  soul  of  him.  Of  what  use  are  words?  I  cannot 
explain !  Good  night,  dear  Nicholas  Murievich. 

C.  A. 

PARIS. 

I  am  leaving  Paris  in  the  morning  for  the  seat  of  war. 
Half  the  young  noblemen  of  France  are  in  the  train  of 
the  armies,  watching  the  game  of  death,  just  as  one  would 
watch  a  stage  play  at  Les  Italiens.  I  hear  that  the 
army  of  Russia  is  marching  westward  under  Aprakin, 
an  army  so  tremendous  the  earth  trembles.  The  report 
here  is  that  one  hundred  and  ten  thousand  regulars  and 
seventy  thousand  Cossacks  are  on  the  borders  of  Livonia 
marching  toward  Prussia,  and  that  Orlov  is  with  them 
commanding  the  artillery.  No  one  talks  of  anything  but 
the  war  and  the  advance  of  Russia.  Gossip  is  laid  aside. 
We  all  felt  that  it  must  come  with  the  spring  —  the  army 
of  Russia.  I  go  at  once  to  the  seat  of  war.  My  next 
letter  will  be  from  there. 

I  am  worried  that  Orlov  is  no  longer  in  Petersburg  to 
watch  over  you.  There  is  no  one  now  but  Count  Bes- 
tushev.  He  is  so  overwhelmed,  of  course,  with  the  added 
demands  the  war  puts  upon  him  and  the  enemies  who  are 

74 


NICHOLAS  AND  CATHERINE 

trying  to  depose  him,  that  there  will  be  little  time  left 
for  you. 

My  hope  and  consolation  now  must  rest  with  you  and 
your  own  ability.  I  know,  of  course,  that  you  are  more 
daring  than  other  women,  that  the  weariness  of  the 
decadent  centuries  has  not  touched  you,  and  that  you 
will  always  find  courage  in  your  heart. 

N.  M. 


75 


CHAPTER  IV 

NICHOLAS  MURIEVICH,  GREEK  MUSICIAN  AND  PATRIOT, 
AND  CATHERINE  ALEXEVNA,  GRAND  DUCHESS  OF 
RUSSIA  —  MORE  LETTERS 

ORANIENBAUM  ON  THE  GULF  OF  FINLAND. 
Dear  Nicholas  Murievich: 

The  coming  of  spring  in  these  Arctic  regions  is  noth- 
ing short  of  magic.  It  is  as  if  an  enchanter  waved  his 
wand  one  day  and  said,  "  Let  there  be  winter !  "  The 
next  day  he  waved  it  again  and  said,  "  Let  there  be 
spring!  "  And  it  is  of  the  most  exquisite  and  fragile 
fairness. 

I  am  at  Oranienbaum.  I  came  down  last  week  driv- 
ing along  the  sandy  road  that  borders  the  river.  Spring 
was  in  its  glory.  The  air  was  warm  and  sweet.  The 
birches,  the  lindens,  the  dwarf  willows,  the  mountain 
ash  were  covered  with  transparent  green  flames.  It  will 
not  be  long  now  before  the  syringa  will  be  in  flower. 

The  pale  nights  are  filled  with  the  voices  of  wild  ducks 
that  are  coming  back  to  visit  the  swamps  and  the  marshes 
of  the  Gulf  of  Finland.  And  by  day,  too,  their  high, 
black  shadows  streak  the  sky.  I  am  glad  to  be  away 
from  the  court  and  its  intrigues.  Glad  to  rest!  Yet, 
soon  I  shall  need  its  excitement  again.  Its  atmosphere 
has  been  my  life  too  long  to  be  dispensed  with  perma- 
nently. But  I  am  happy  away  from  it  now.  I  am  glad 
I  am  here. 


MUSICIAN  AND  GRAND  DUCHESS 

I  had  an  interview  with  her  Majesty  before  I  left  for 
Oranienbaum.  Before  it  took  place  she  sent  both  Count 
Ivan  Shuvalov  and  Vice-Chancellor  Woronzov  to  dis- 
suade me  from  my  desire  to  return  to  Prussia.  I  per- 
sisted in  the  determination.  Then,  she  sent  for  me  to 
come  to  her  apartments.  This,  of  course,  was  what  I 
wanted.  I  found  her  Majesty  alone.  The  silk  umbrella 
was  not  spread  behind  the  French  couch,  so  I  knew  that 
we  were  really  alone.  I  began  by  thanking  her  Majesty 
for  her  graciousness  in  granting  an  interview  and  said 
that  the  mere  announcement  had  made  me  live  again. 
She  replied,  "  Now  you  must  tell  me  the  truth !  " 

I  assured  her  that  from  me  she  would  hear  nothing 
but  truth.  Thereupon  she  demanded  how  many  letters 
I  had  written  to  Field-Marshal  Aprakin.  I  told  her. 
She  believed  me  and  the  question  was  settled.  And  yet 
that  was  not  really  what  settled  it.  It  was  the  under- 
standing of  each  other  of  two  women  whom  Fate  has 
assigned  the  same  places  to  fill.  It  was  the  inexplicable 
sympathy  of  like  to  like. 

She  was  grown  noticeably  thinner.  In  her  eyes  there 
is  a  light  which  only  approaching  death  can  light.  One 
of  her  wishes  is  to  live  long  enough  to  destroy  the  Prus- 
sian king.  Tenacity  of  purpose  makes  her  great.  She 
is  not  a  woman  to  be  measured  by  the  petty  German 
standard.  I  took  leave  of  her  with  tears. 

This  interview  insures  a  certain  amount  of  peace  — 
for  the  present  Yet,  here  in  the  quiet  of  Oranienbaum, 
by  this  pale  and  placid  Gulf,  which  is  scarcely  marked 
by  the  tides  —  which  do  not  rise  and  fall  as  they  do  in 
the  German  Ocean  —  I  am  losing  faster  than  ever, 
Nicholas  Murievich,  the  sense  of  reality.  I  cannot  get 
the  mental  certainty  of  a  thing  when  I  have  the  physical 
certainty  of  it.  Nor  indeed  do  I  think  I  grasp  any  cer- 

77 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

tainty.  Perhaps  this  is  what  happens  to  people  who  are 
led  to  a  place  in  life  where  they  do  terrible  things.  If 
I  could  get  away  now,  I  could  recover,  because  I  see  what 
is  happening.  But  if  I  cannot  get  away  —  and  I  know 
that  I  cannot  —  the  day  will  come  when  I  cannot  see. 
The  day  will  come  when  I  shall  do  terrible  things, 
Nicholas  Murievich,  when  the  destruction  which  is  going 
on  within  me  shall  be  complete. 

The  day  of  the  Court  when  I  was  driving  outside 
Petersburg  where  the  snow  wastes  are,  I  thought  how 
like  them  is  the  soul  of  me,  bleak  and  brilliantly  reflecting. 
Within  me  are  the  same  wastes  of  cold  and  silence.  As 
I  drove  along  that  day,  I  saw  miniature  whirlwinds  of 
frost  dust  rise  up  and  dance  across  the  levels.  Or,  I 
saw  dark,  soft-footed,  furry  creatures  with  furtive  eyes 
dart  over  it.  It  showed  both  brilliantly.  But  the  waste 
itself  was  motionless  and  felt  nothing.  It  was  a  mirror 
that  gave  back  the  motion  of  life.  I  am  becoming  like 
it,  Nicholas  Murievich.  No  one  escapes  his  surround- 
ings. Destiny  stamps  each  of  us. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  eagerly  I  am  looking  forward 
to  your  return,  which  must  be  in  a  short  time  now.  I 
want  you  to  warm  me  back  to  life,  to  the  normal  life  that 
other  people  know.  I  want  your  love  to  make  of  me  a 
woman. 

My  brown  faun,  you  belong  to  the  glad  tender  things 
of  nature  where  the  heart  is  kind.  I  want  you  to  kill 
within  me  the  passionless  fury  of  the  north.  I  want  you 
to  counteract  its  numbing  and  destructive  cold. 

I  sit  for  hours  alone  upon  the  high  terrace  that  over- 
hangs the  sea,  looking  up  from  time  to  time  at  the  stars 
of  our  Russian  night,  and  they  are  just  as  real  to  me, 
winking  in  space,  as  I,  or  the  life  that  is  mine.  That 
is  why  I  am  so  brave.  I  said  to  Count  Esterhazy  at  a 

78 


MUSICIAN  AND  GRAND  DUCHESS 

dinner  before  I  left  Petersburg,  "  There  is  no  other 
woman  so  brave  as  I !  "  I  could  stand  in  front  of  a 
loaded  cannon  as  calmly  as  I  sit  upon  this  terrace,  because 
I  could  not  realize  the  danger.  If  I  could,  I  might  be 
a  coward. 

Yesterday,  Count  Bestushev  came  down.  After  sup- 
per he  sat  with  me  upon  the  terrace.  Summer  mist  hid 
the  land.  It  was  as  if  he  and  I  were  alone  in  space. 
I  have  never  seen  the  world  more  unreal.  We  sat  for 
an  hour,  I  should  think,  in  silence.  It  seems  that  that 
is  the  way  we  converse  best.  Suddenly,  he  turned  to  me 
with  that  quick  movement  of  the  head  and  hand:  "  You 
must  kill  the  Grand  Duke!  There  is  no  way  to  get 
around  it.  You  must  kill  him !  Not  to-day  nor  to-mor- 
row —  but  when  the  crash  comes." 

Nicholas  Murievich,  it  was  just  as  if  he  said  to  me, 
'  You  must  wear  your  silver  embroidered  ball  gown." 
The  fact  behind  the  words  was  aeons  away  and  I  could 
not  feel  it.  The  water  kept  singing  against  the  shore. 
The  stars  kept  on  shining  in  space.  Yet,  he  had  said, 
"  You  must  kill  the  Grand  Duke !  "  You  see,  Nicholas 
Murievich,  I  am  like  the  stars  and  the  sea.  They  keep  on 
their  appointed  way.  And  so  shall  I.  When  he  got 
ready  to  go,  he  stood  and  looked  thoughtfully  down  at 
the  pale  Gulf  that  spread  at  his  feet. 

"  Some  day,  Catherine  Alexevna,  if  you  are  true  to 
me  —  and  you  cannot  help  being  —  you  and  I  will  stand 
upon  the  crest  of  the  world,  just  as  we  are  standing  upon 
this  terrace."  His  thin  old  voice  grew  strong  and  full 
with  the  joy  of  dominance.  I  thought  I  could  hear  it 
going  out  over  the  sea.  Then,  he  left  me  without  even 
shaking  hands.  But,  after  he  had  gone,  his  presence 
lingered  on  far  into  the  night.  Sometimes  for  days  it 
is  beside  me  all  the  time  like  a  person  I  cannot  see. 

79 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

I  am  alone  a  good  deal  at  Oranienbaum.  The  Grand 
Duke  is  at  Peterhof  part  of  the  time,  coming  down  only 
occasionally  for  the  duck  shooting.  Elizabeth  Woron- 
zov  is  with  him;  and  so  is  Countess  Bruce,  I  hear.  She 
is  just  as  wicked  hearted  as  that  wizard  grandfather  of 
hers  whom  they  nicknamed  the  "  Russian  Faust." 

The  Empress  stays  on  at  the  Winter  Palace.  She  is 
too  ill  to  make  the  summer  journey.  Besides,  it  is  more 
like  home  to  her  than  any  other  place  now  that  the 
palace  of  her  childhood  in  Moscow  is  burned.  And  she 
has  no  liking  for  the  new  one. 

I  am  expecting  that  every  letter  from  you  will  an- 
nounce your  speedy  departure  for  Russia.  Do  come 
while  the  summer  is  here  and  I  am  at  Oranienbaum  I 

C.  A. 


BY  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  PREGEL. 

I  arrived  just  in  time.  The  journey  was  short,  thanks 
to  relays  of  horses.  The  couriers  I  met  on  the  road 
talked  of  nothing  but  the  army  of  Russia.  It  has  filled 
a  continent  with  terror.  One  would  think  it  was  an- 
other incursion  of  the  Huns.  They  speak  of  it  as  of  an 
army  of  savages  whose  depredations  will  make  Europe 
shudder.  I  hear  Austria  made  the  commander-in-chief, 
Aprakin,  sign  a  pledge  that  his  Cossacks  should  not  pil- 
lage nor  murder.  Really,  it  is  as  if  the  tread  of  your 
army  shook  the  earth,  it  has  been  awaited  with  such 
apprehension. 

How  Frederick  the  Great  fears  it !  He  is  in  consterna- 
tion. The  end  may  be  near  for  him  and  he  knows  it. 
I  heard  on  good  authority  that  he  has  decided  to  kill 
himself  in  case  the  ruin  of  his  country  cannot  be  avoided. 
He  has  written  an  apology  for  suicide.  How  contact 

80 


MUSICIAN  AND  GRAND  DUCHESS 

with  Russia  makes  even  great  men  dream  of  death! 
When  he  heard  the  Russian  army  was  on  the  way,  he 
wrote  to  his  brother  Prince  Henry,  "  How  happy  are 
the  dead!" 

Now  I  have  seen  this  army  all  are  discussing  I  do 
not  wonder.  I  saw  it  first  under  the  sullen  fog  of  an 
August  morning  stretching  away  through  the  wet  corn 
fields  that  border  the  Pregel.  It  was  like  the  on-rolling 
wave  of  a  Polar  ocean.  The  resourcefulness  of  genius 
cannot  avert  it.  Even  though  the  first  wave  be  shat- 
tered, others  will  come,  and  still  others,  crushing  what- 
ever is  in  their  path. 

General  Aprakin  did  not  intend  to  give  battle  here. 
He  was  pushing  on  to  Konigsberg,  which,  as  you  know, 
is  a  Russian  city  of  which  Suvarov  is  now  governor. 
This  was  his  desired  objective  point.  But  the  Prussian 
king  had  given  orders  to  his  commanding  general,  Mar- 
shal Lehwaldt,  to  attack.  So  you  see  our  attitude  was 
purely  defensive.  That  usually  means  defeat. 

They  met  near  Gross-Jagersdorf.  I  saw  the  battle. 
It  was  terrible.  And  there  was  something  pitiful  in  the 
great  age  and  indifference  to  death  of  the  commanding 
generals.  The  Prussians  were  literally  cut  into  pieces. 
But  their  bravery  in  meeting  death  was  marvelous. 
There  is  nothing  in  Europe  to  equal  it,  except  Gregory 
Orlov.  History  does  not  tell  of  men  braver  than  he. 
His  indifference  to  death  won  the  admiration  of  both 
armies.  Imagine,  your  Royal  Highness,  that  tall  figure 
of  his  towering  neck  and  shoulders  above  ordinary  men, 
bare  of  head,  with  streaming  hair  shining  like  a  flame, 
wherever  death  was  nearest;  laughing  deliriously  when 
the  bullets  hissed  past  him,  as  if  he  were  playing  with 
them,  just  as  a  boy  plays  with  tossing  marbles.  He  was 
a  splendid  and  inspired  figure,  radiant  with  youth  and 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

vigor,  a  veritable  Apollo,  such  as  the  poets  of  my  coun- 
try have  sung  of. 

I  wonder  what  it  was  he  held  clasped  in  his  heart 
that  gave  him  such  courage!  I  kept  saying  to  myself, 
"  Is  it  her  Royal  Highness?  "  Pardon  me  this  —  I  will 
explain  it  later. 

"  No,"  I  said.  "  It  is  not  that.  It  is  ambition.  It 
is  belief  in  his  star  of  destiny.  It  is  belief  that  he  is  the 
favorite  of  the  gods  whom  nothing  can  destroy." 

After  the  battle  he  was  as  fresh  as  if  he  had  arisen  from 
his  morning  sleep.  He  was  the  only  Russian  who  gave 
evidence  of  a  feeling  greater  than  interest. 

They  were  dull,  apathetic;  a  cold,  unfeeling  mass.  I 
am  hastening  to  get  this  off  by  the  courier,  who  is  wait- 
ing while  I  write,  that  you  may  have  the  first  news  of 
victory.  And  I  am  wishing  more  bitterly  than  usual, 
while  I  send  it,  that  my  body  could  be  in  Russia  to-night 
where  my  heart  is. 

N.  M. 

ORANIENBAUM  ON  THE  GULF  OF  FINLAND. 
Dearest  Nicholas: 

The  Grand  Duke  is  sending  news  of  everything  that 
goes  on  to  the  King.  Did  anyone  ever  hear  of  such 
folly!  Betraying  his  birthright!  Bartering  a  Russian 
realm  for  a  Holstein  duchy!  Poor  fool!  The  King 
has  sent  him  a  ring  in  acknowledgment.  He  swears  by 
it  as  if  it  were  the  Holy  Mother  of  God  of  Kasan.  He 
sees  everything  in  just  such  disjointed  perspective.  He 
is  just  as  wrong-headed  as  that. 

You  remember  Maschuta  the  gipsy  dancer,  of  whom 
I  wrote?  She  is  staying  in  Petersburg  for  the  summer  in- 
stead of  taking  up  her  accustomed  vagabondage  to  south- 
ern Russia.  She  has  met  the  Grand  Duke.  They  say 

82 


MUSICIAN  AND  GRAND  DUCHESS 

she  has  influence  over  him.  I  do  not  like  their  growing 
intimacy.  I  would  stop  it  if  I  could. 

The  Grand  Duke  is  at  Oranienbaum  for  a  few  days 
now  for  the  duck  shooting.  I  am  enjoying  the  duck 
shooting,  too.  Yet  it  is  not  really  that  that  I  care  for. 
It  is  need  of  exercise  which  I  crave  more  and  more.  I 
crave  it  as  greatly  now  as  I  did  in  the  winter.  I  arise 
at  three  and  dress  in  men's  clothes.  An  old  hunter 
awaits  me  with  guns  and  a  boat.  We  row  through  the 
Oranienbaum  Canal  which  is  two  versts  wide  here  where 
it  meets  the  Gulf.  On  both  banks  are  water  grasses 
which  are  full  of  ducks  and  splashing  water  fowl.  At 
this  time  of  year  it  is  day  in  this  latitude.  The  sun  sets 
only  for  a  little  while  after  midnight.  The  witchlike 
daylight  night  upon  this  Arctic  water  with  the  iris  necked 
ducks  flying  about  us  is  exquisite.  The  backs  and  the 
heads  of  the  ducks  are  the  color  of  summer  and  flowers. 
But  their  white,  mottled  breasts  are  the  color  of  flower- 
less  winter. 

Whenever  I  see  them  rising  directly  above  me,  I  see 
the  snow  fields.  Even  now,  in  midsummer,  Nicholas 
Murievich,  there  are  cold,  white  clouds  sailing  across 
the  sky,  that  have  the  chill  of  winter.  Just  beyond  the 
smiling  blue  horizon  of  this  sea  the  icebergs  rest.  Win- 
ter is  never  far  away  from  here. 

The  Grand  Duke  does  not  join  us  until  two  or  three 
hours  later.  When  he  does  come,  it  is  with  a  retinue  of 
servants  and  a  breakfast  of  many  courses.  Everything 
has  to  stop  for  this!  He  cannot  do  anything  without 
hindering  annoyances.  There  is  no  surer  mark  of  in- 
ability. 

After  the  shooting  is  over,  when  the  Grand  Duke  has 
gone  back  to  Oranienbaum,  the  old  hunter  and  I  drift 
down  the  canal  as  far  as  the  sea.  Sometimes,  we  go  out 

83 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

upon  it.  This  is  dangerous.  That  is  the  reason  I  like 
it.  For  the  moment  it  gives  me  the  sting  of  life. 

Last  week,  one  day  when  we  were  coming  back,  in 
about  the  center  of  the  canal,  I  got  out  for  another  try 
at  the  ducks.  There,  hidden  in  the  swamp  grass  and 
rushes,  whom  do  you  suppose  I  met?  Maschuta!  She 
divined  who  I  was.  She  must  have  known  me  that  night 
at  the  Dresden  Woman's.  When  she  met  me  on  a  sud- 
den in  the  swamp,  her  gray  eyes  became  black  with 
hatred.  I  felt  the  emotion  that  swept  her.  She  was 
disguised  as  a  gipsy.  She  was  worth  looking  at!  I 
thought  of  those  pictures  of  youth  your  French  friend 
Greuze  paints.  But  could  he  paint  a  tigress  and  a  woman 
at  the  same  time?  The  charm  of  the  one,  the  muscular 
beauty  of  the  other?  The  Grand  Duke  has  hired  her  as 
a  spy  I  I  feel  sure  of  it.  That  is  the  reason  she  is  stay- 
ing in  Petersburg.  That  is  the  reason  she  was  by  the 
Oranienbaum  Canal.  I  do  not  fear  her  although  I  know 
how  dangerous  she  is.  When  I  looked  into  her  eyes,  I 
felt  I  was  the  power  that  some  day  would  pass  over  and 
crush  her.  I  feel  that  no  misfortune  can  touch  me.  All 
the  time  I  was  hunting  that  day,  Nicholas  Murievich, 
I  heard  ringing  in  my  heart  like  a  bell,  so  loudly  it 
seemed  to  me  the  world  must  hear  it,  what  Count  Bes- 
tushev  said,  "  You  must  kill  the  Grand  Duke!  "  I  did 
not  feel  surprise  or  grief,  or  any  emotion,  except  a  wish 
that  the  bell  would  stop  ringing.  At  the  same  time  I 
knew  that  nothing  could  stop  it. 

Taken  all  in  all  that  was  an  eventful  day.  Hear  what 
happened  next!  That  night  Count  Poniatovsky  came 
down  in  the  disguise  of  a  coiffeur  to  make  merry  for  an 
hour.  We  have  had  fun  out  of  this  piece  of  nonsense. 
He  comes  through  the  rear  of  the  palace  like  a  servant. 
He  plays  the  part  so  perfectly  you  could  not  tell  him 

84 


MUSICIAN  AND  GRAND  DUCHESS 

from  a  professional  hairdresser.  He  really  comes  into 
my  room  and  dresses  my  hair !  My  maids  —  who  are 
in  the  secret  —  and  I,  laugh  ourselves  breathless.  Im- 
agine, Nicholas  Murievich,  that  Polish  dandy  playing 
hairdresser ! 

Well,  that  evening  as  usual,  before  supper,  he  came  in 
by  way  of  the  garden.  He  had  not  crossed  it  —  in  truth 
I  think  he  had  only  started  to  do  so  —  when  the  Grand 
Duke  ran  up  and  stopped  him  and  said:  'Yes,  yes! 
I  see  that  our  most  indispensable  French  hairdresser  is 
none  other  than  Count  Poniatovsky  —  our  Polish  ex- 
quisite !  What  are  you  doing  here  in  this  disguise?  " 

"  I  come  to  pay  my  respects  to  your  Royal  Highness 
and  the  Grand  Duchess." 

"  It  looks  like  it,  Count  Poniatovsky,  sneaking  in  by  the 
garden!  " 

(You  see,  Nicholas  Murievich,  he  was  so  frightened  he 
lost  his  wits.) 

"  You  came  to  see  the  Grand  Duchess  without  my 
permission  or  that  of  her  Majesty." 

A  violent  quarrel  followed.  The  Grand  Duke  called 
his  men.  I  do  not  know  how  serious  the  result  would 
have  been  for  Count  Poniatovsky,  had  not  a  Polish  friend 
of  the  Grand  Duke,  Count  Branitzky,  in  order,  perhaps, 
to  save  his  countryman's  life,  come  forward.  He  threw 
Count  Poniatovsky  out  of  the  garden,  administering  ad- 
monitory kicks  by  the  way. 

Just  then  a  woman's  laughter  rang  out,  stabbing  the 
night  like  a  dagger.  It  was  Maschuta !  I  looked  at 
the  Grand  Duke.  The  Grand  Duke  looked  at  me.  Not 
a  word  did  we  say!  But  he  understands  that  I  know 
it  was  Maschuta  who  learned  of  Count  Poniatovsky's 
disguise  and  betrayed  the  fact  to  the  Grand  Duke.  That 
laughter  was  her  challenge  to  me. 

85 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

Count  Poniatovsky  has  been  ordered  to  leave  Russia. 
That  means  another  loss  for  Count  Bestushev  and  my- 
self. Daily  some  friend  is  exiled. 

Despite  such  unpleasantly  dramatic  incidents  and  the 
uncertainty  of  my  position,  I  am  enjoying  the  Russian 
summer  which  is  fiercely  hot.  Here,  snow  falls  heaviest 
in  winter  and  the  summer  heat  is  most  unbearable.  Mid- 
day is  dull  and  sullen.  Bluish  haze  hangs  over  the  land. 
In  it  the  sun  rolls  about  like  a  red  ball.  As  late  as  mid- 
night flaming  streamers  streak  the  sky  and  leave  faint 
furrows  upon  this  placid  Gulf.  Every  night  the  Grand 
Duke  is  here;  he  sits  upon  the  terrace  and  plays  upon  his 
violin.  But  the  past  few  nights  he  breaks  his  playing  off 
to  look  longingly  across  the  water.  Night  before  last 
I  asked  him  what  he  was  thinking  of  after  he  had  sat 
silent  for  some  time. 

"  I  am  thinking  how  I  want  to  go  back  to  Sweden.  It 
was  so  peaceful  there.  I  could  play  upon  my  violin  and 
be  happy.  In  Russia  there  is  nothing  but  revolution. 
The  Russians  are  just  a  pack  of  wolves." 

He  is  frail  and  helpless  in  this  awful  Russia.  He  is 
as  ineffective  as  a  fly  upon  the  horns  of  an  ox.  I  am 
sorry  he  hates  me.  I  am  the  only  one  who  pities  him  and 
understands.  I,  too,  long  to  get  away  from  Russia. 

Ah !  dear  Nicholas  Murievich,  it  will  take  a  great  deal 
of  love's  deep  forgetfulness  in  your  encircling  arms  to 
drive  from  me,  for  even  a  little  while,  the  terror  of  Rus- 
sia !  You  will  be  on  the  wing  as  quickly  as  this  reaches 
you.  I  shall  count  the  days  until  I  can  look  out  over  the 
Gulf  and  fancy  that  every  passing  ship  bears  you  back  to 
Petersburg.  I  shall  wonder  if  you  are  passing  me  in  the 
day  or  in  the  night.  I  shall  wonder  if  the  breeze  that 
touches  my  face  has  first  billowed  the  sails  of  the  ship 
that  is  bearing  you  back  to  me.  Come  quickly.  Come 

86 


MUSICIAN  AND  GRAND  DUCHESS 

quickly  while  the  sun  of  summer  is  smiling  over  Rus- 
sia. Come  quickly,  because  you  know  the  storms  are 
never  far  away  from  here. 

C.  A. 

BY  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  PREGEL. 

Your  Highness,  what  do  you  think  has  happened? 
The  most  astonishing,  the  most  foolish,  the  most  pitiful, 
the  most  ridiculous  thing  in  the  world!  The  Russians 
are  retreating!  You  do  not  believe  it?  Of  course  you 
do  not!  Who  could?  But  it  is  true.  Retreating! 
They  are  giving  up  the  rewards  of  victory.  Why?  No 
one  knows !  No  one  can  hazard  a  guess !  And  they 
could  march  on  to-night  and  take  Berlin. 

Of  course,  there  are  all  kinds  of  reports.  Some  say 
there  is  a  plot  to  bring  about  your  ruin  and  that  of  the 
Great  Chancellor.  Court  couriers  are  going  post  haste  to 
Russia.  By  this  judge  of  the  news  they  bear.  They 
say  —  that  is  gossip  of  the  camps  —  I  tremble  to  tell 
you  —  they  say  that  you  and  the  Great  Chancellor  have 
secretly  recalled  the  army  that  you  may  have  their  help 
with  which  to  seize  the  throne.  I  know,  of , course,  this 
is  false !  But  false  as  it  is,  it  is  to  be  told  the  Empress 
to  procure  your  ruin  and  Count  Bestushev's  banishment. 
I  believe  it  is  the  Grand  Duke,  by  means  of  some  trick 
—  put  up,  of  course,  by  the  Prussian  King  —  who  has 
procured  cessation  of  hostilities.  I  have  not  been  able  to 
see  General  Aprakin.  They  say  he  looks  like  a  man 
condemned  to  death.  Death  will  be  his  reward  for  this ! 
The  air  is  as  full  of  rumors  and  thick  flying  reports  as 
your  Arctic  nights  of  winter  of  falling  snow.  I  can 
write  no  more.  This  must  go. 

N.  M. 

87 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

BY  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  PREGEL. 

What  do  you  suppose  I  have  to  tell  you  now,  your 
Highness,  by  this  courier  departing  hot  upon  the  heels  of 
his  fellow?  Something  most  astonishing !  Frederick  of 
Prussia  has  some  secret  which,  when  it  is  divulged,  will 
make  you  his  obedient  vassal.  It  is  something  that  not 
even  your  tried  strength  of  will  and  fortified  courage  can 
resist.  But  no  one  has  had  a  hint  of  what  it  is.  Do  you 
know?  Can  you  form  a  conjecture?  It  has  something 
to  do  with  your  birth,  your  youth.  Now  do  you  know 
any  better  than  before? 

The  life,  the  freedom,  the  property  of  no  one  is  safe 
here  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Prussian  army.  The 
King  has  everyone  arrested  and  examined  every  once  in 
awhile,  just  to  satisfy  that  insatiable  curiosity  of  his.  I 
am  going  about  as  a  strolling  musician.  I  look  the  part. 
All  sorts  of  vagabonds  are  in  the  train  of  the  armies.  I 
take  my  place  among  them  and  escape  attention. 

I  could  not  stay  away  from  you,  m'Amie,  longer  even 
if  I  would.  Daily  now  my  heart  flies  away  from  me 
toward  Russia.  If  I  stayed  on,  some  day  it  would  not 
come  back.  I  am  beginning  to  believe  that  it  is  only  by 
the  heart  that  one  lives.  Any  other  life  is  not  worthy 
the  name. 

N.  M. 


BY  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  PREGEL. 

What  do  you  think  I  am  bringing  to  Russia  with  me, 
your  Highness?  It  is  a  gift  the  like  of  which  you  never 
had  —  you  who  have  had  so  many.  It  is  a  statuette 
carven  of  ivory  and  set  with  gems.  With  it  there  is  a 
manuscript  in  Greek.  The  statuette  was  found  wrapped 

88 


MUSICIAN  AND  GRAND  DUCHESS 

in  the  manuscript.     What  does  it  represent?     Love! 
Our  Greek  Queen  of  Love,  of  long  ago. 

Where  did  it  come  from?  One  of  the  followers  of 
the  army  found  it  in  southern  Russia  where  were  once 
Greek  cities.  You  will  be  astonished  when  you  see  the 
statuette  because  of  a  certain  resemblance —  Of  that 
I  will  tell  you  when  I  see  you ! 

I  can  hardly  wait  to  give  it  to  you,  and  to  translate  the 
papyrus  in  which  it  was  wrapped.  For  this  grant  one 
of  our  old  evenings !  I  shall  be  in  Russia  now  as  speed- 
ily as  the  feet  of  horses  can  bear  me.  Then,  for  one 
evening,  let  us  forget  intrigue,  the  burden  of  living,  and 
your  royal  state  —  for  one  evening — for  one  evening! 
You  will  grant  this,  I  know.  You  are  great  enough  to 
pause  in  the  midst  of  encircling  dangers  and  pluck  the 
fleeting  flowers  of  joy.  It  is  brave  to  be  able  to  laugh  in 
the  face  of  fate.  Perhaps,  it  is  this  in  you  that  I  have 
admired  more  than  anything  else. 

Now  I  can  hear  you  saying:  "  Do  not  admire  me! 
But  love  me,  love  me  —  just  as  you  would  a  peasant 
woman !  Admiration  stands  in  the  road  of  love."  Per- 
haps it  is  possible  for  a  woman  to  be  jealous  even  of  her- 
self, of  the  other  woman  within  her,  who  has  possibilities 
of  brain  and  soul,  and  who  in  time  kills  utterly  that  primi- 
tive woman  who  loves  only  love. 

My  thoughts,  my  desires,  are  flying  out  to  you  to-day 
like  a  flock  of  doves,  just  such  doves  as  in  a  happier  age 
fluttered  about  the  shoulders  of  the  gay  goddess  whom  we 
Greeks  have  loved  the  best. 

N.  M. 

P.  S. —  Orlov  is  departing  to-day  for  Russia.  In  the 
morning  I  set  out.  It  is  peculiar  how  I  come  after  him. 
To-day  and  yesterday,  too,  I  had  a  presentiment  of  ill 

89 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

luck.  Now,  you  who  have  no  superstitions  are  laughing. 
I  feel  as  if  I  were  setting  out  to  meet  —  both  love  —  and 
death.  The  too  strenuous  life  of  the  past  weeks,  and 
weariness,  bring  these  sad  thoughts.  Banish  them,  my 
love! 

N.  M. 


90 


CHAPTER  V 

NIGHT  IN  THE   PORCELAIN  SALON  —  THE  IVORY  VENUS 

Nicholas  Murievich  returned  to  Russia  with  Gregory 
Orlov  and  some  of  the  men  of  the  court,  the  last  week  of 
September.  And  that  year,  as  it  happened,  summer  was 
prolonged  into  the  autumn.  If  its  leaves  were  gone  and 
its  warmer  sun,  a  peculiarly  soft,  windless  interim  pre- 
ceded the  winter,  a  sort  of  breathing  space  before  its 
desolation  and  its  storms. 

The  Grand  Duchess,  Catherine  Alexevna,  stayed  on 
at  Oranienbaum.  Here,  on  an  evening  during  the  last  of 
September,  she  awaited  Nicholas  Murievich,  in  the  pal- 
ace so  picturesquely  situated  upon  its  terraces  above  the 
Gulf  of  Finland.  The  Palace  of  Oranienbaum  had  been 
given  to  herself  and  the  Grand  Duke  by  her  Majesty  at 
the  time  of  their  wedding.  This  palace,  indeed,  had  fre- 
quently been  an  imperial  gift.  Peter  the  Great  built  it 
as  a  distinguishing  mark  of  favor  for  his  "  eaglet,"  the 
friend  he  loved,  Alexander  Mentchikov,  the  peasant's 
son,  of  whom  he  made  a  prince.  He  placed  it  upon  a 
terrace  just  as  he  had  done  with  his  own  home,  Peterhof, 
with  a  splendid  and  commanding  view.  And  as  Peterhof 
had  rooms  whose  walls  were  made  of  malachite  and 
amber,  Oranienbaum  had  rooms  of  pearl  and  gold  and 
black  lacquer.  Viewed  at  this  time  from  the  exterior,  it 
was  not  a  pretentious  palace.  It  was  built  of  wood  and 
was  only  two  stories  high.  United  to  the  central  building 

91 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

were  wooden  wings  attached  by  light  and  graceful  colon- 
nades. This  made  it  look  as  if  it  were  made  to  be  situ- 
ated beside  a  sea  of  Greece,  instead  of  this  pale,  mysteri- 
ous water  of  the  north.  One  of  these  wings  was  furnished 
for  a  chapel.  The  other,  which  all  but  opened  into  the 
Gulf  itself,  it  was  so  near,  contained  two  salons.  The  one 
nearest  the  water  was  walled  in  painted  plaques  of  Sevres. 
The  other  opening  out  of  it  was  a  Chinese  room  in  black 
lacquer. and  dull  gold.  About  the  entrance,  and  indeed 
throughout  the  grounds  now  that  autumn  was  come,  were 
placed  marble  urns  which  were  filled  from  the  hot  houses 
with  the  rarest  of  flowers  to  give  as  long  as  possible  the  il- 
lusion of  summer  and  prolific  spring. 

It  was  here  at  Oranienbaum  that  Catherine  Alexevna 
was  her  own  mistress,  because  Elizabeth  Petrovna  did 
not  come  here  since  a  tragic  occurrence  of  her  youth. 
And  it  was  here,  during  the  last  months  of  the  dying 
Empress,  that  she  gave  some  of  those  sumptuous  enter- 
tainments which  for  wasteful  extravagance  paralleled  the 
pleasures  of  the  Empresses  of  Rome.  It  was  here  on  a 
warm,  windless  night  when  the  earth  had  breathed  out  all 
its  energy  upon  the  sea,  that  she  received  Nicholas  Murie- 
vich.  The  Porcelain  Salon  was  lighted  by  tall  candles 
placed  in  the  corners,  but  not  so  brightly  as  to  destroy  the 
up-flung  reflection  of  the  restless  water  which  slipped  its 
wave-light  across  the  walls.  Catherine  Alexevna  wore 
one  of  the  gowns  of  perishable  gauze  of  the  period,  caught 
up  with  fleurs  fines,  real  lilies  of  the  valley,  moss  rose 
buds  and  violets.  Of  jewels  she  had  none.  Nicholas 
Murievich  was  sitting  facing  her  at  a  table  by  the  open 
doors  that  gave  upon  the  Gulf.  Here,  they  had  been  din- 
ing together,  served  by  Calmucks  who  were  dressed  in 
red  and  gold,  with  bright  curving  knives  stuck  into  their 
sashes.  Now  that  the  dinner  was  over,  they  were  sipping 

92 


NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCELAIN  SALON 

wine  from  carved  glasses  of  Siberian  crystal.  With  the 
wine  and  the  dessert,  came  the  dinner's  divertissement. 
From  the  Chinese  Salon,  stepping  softly  to  the  music  of 
the  torgane  and  the  balalaika,  played  by  soft-eyed  Don 
Cossacks,  who  reclined  in  a  corner  upon  the  floor,  floated 
a  ballet  of  young  girls.  They  wore  transparent  shirts 
reaching  to  the  knees,  made  of  gold  and  silver  net.  These 
were  girdled  at  the  waist.  From  the  girdles  hung  bouf- 
fant petticoats  of  strung  flowers,  below  which  their  bare 
legs  showed.  They,  who  wore  gold  gauze,  had  petticoats 
of  the  yellow  crocus.  They,  who  wore  silver  gauze,  had 
petticoats  of  the  purple  iris.  Upon  their  heads  were 
crowns  of  the  same  exquisite  flowers  of  the  early  far  off 
spring  of  the  south.  To  the  sad  music  of  the  Cossacks 
they  danced  the  dances  of  Greece. 

'  This  is  in  compliment  to  me !  "  exclaimed  Nicholas 
Murievich,  pleasure  and  appreciation  alternating  upon 
his  sensitive  face. 

4  The  flowers  of  my  Greece!  The  ones  we  love  best! 
And  the  dances,  too.  Did  you  know,  Catherine  Alexevna, 
that  in  the  songs  of  your  Cossacks,  in  the  melodies  of  the 
Ukraine,  there  is  some  of  the  lost  music  of  the  Greeks?  " 
Another  self  had  risen  over  Catherine  Alexevna  like  a 
moon  of  Saturn.  Its  light  was  that  of  the  radiant  present 
with  its  imperious  pleasures.  She  was  no  longer  the  royal 
intrigante.  Her  blue  eyes  were  dewy  with  love  and  ten- 
derness. Under  the  thin  covering  of  her  gauzes  her  body 
seemed  to  be  more  graciously  curved.  Nor  did  the  con- 
ventional court  dress  prevent  the  gay  faun  from  dominat- 
ing the  presence  of  her  companion. 

'  You  have  made  me  see  that  and  many  things,  Nicho- 
las Murievich,"  she  replied  in  French,  the  language  of 
their  hours  of  intimacy. 

"  Many  things  in  Russia  have  as  foundation  the  long- 

93 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

ing  for  beauty  of  the  Greek.    Russia,  you  see,  has  no  self. 
She  has  a  divided  soul." 

"  But  yours  shall  be  divided  no  longer,"  he  interrupted 
gayly,  catching  up  impetuously  the  drooping  inflection  of 
her  voice.  "  Love  is  going  to  make  it  whole." 

"  Who  can  tell?  It  may  not  be  possible."  But,  while 
she  answered  doubtfully,  the  joy  of  a  child  was  shining 
in  her  eyes. 

For  a  while  they  were  both  silent,  each  buried  in  his 
dream,  while  the  slender  dancers  wove  their  paces  about 
them,  and  the  faint,  vanishing  music  of  the  Cossacks,  with 
its  pauses  like  the  sighs  of  unsatisfied  desire,  shivered 
upon  the  sea,  as  the  sea's  light  upon  the  swaying  dancers. 
The  silence  was  prolonged  until  it  seemed  that  Greece 
with  its  fabled  joy  was  throbbing  back  to  life  again  within 
the  room  beside  the  mysterious  water  of  the  north.  And 
between  the  two,  like  a  veiled  goddess  which  might  sym- 
bolize the  unknown  ways  of  life,  there  rose  up  to  domi- 
nate, love  and  desirous  youth. 

Catherine  Alexevna  made  a  gesture  of  command.  The 
dancers  paused.  They  took  off  their  crocus  and  iris  skirts 
and  flung  them  upon  the  floor  until  the  long  salon  was  car- 
peted with  the  flowers  of  spring.  There  was  a  shiver  of 
light  in  the  air.  They  pulled  off  their  tingling  vests  of 
gauze  net  and  swung  them  above  their  heads,  and  stood 
naked  save  for  silken  trunks  the  color  of  their  bodies. 
The  music  arose  commandingly.  They  scampered  away 
into  the  black  and  gold  Chinese  Salon  —  beyond,  which 
was  unlighted  —  where  monstrous  grinning  heads  peered 
out  uncomprehendingly  upon  their  white  joy.  There  they 
were  swallowed  up  in  its  yellow  twilight  just  as  the  Greek 
cities  of  Scythia  were  swallowed  up  long  ago  in  the  grow- 
ing night  of  Russia.  The  Calmucks  bore  away  the  table 

94 


NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCELAIN  SALON 

upon  which  they  had  dined.  She  signalled  for  the  Cossack 
musicians  to  follow. 

"  Now,  at  last,  we  are  alone,  my  faun !  I  am  so  glad 
that  you  have  come !" 

He  went  up  to  where  she  was  standing,  when  she  sig- 
nalled the  tables  to  be  removed,  and  took  her  in  his  arms, 
running  his  lips  lovingly  along  the  edge  of  her  shoulders. 

"  Your  face,  Nicholas  Murievich,  is  like  my  dream  of 
that  south  I  have  longed  to  see.  I  wish  I  could  get  away 
and  go  there  with  you !  I  am  tired  of  pomp.  I  am  tired 
of  this  stupid,  barren  magnificence.  I  want  to  live  dif- 
ferently. I  want  to  get  away  from  Russia ! 

"Am  I  changed?  Look  in  my  eyes!  Tell  we  what 
you  see  there.  Is  there  something  dreadful  in  them, 
something  —  How  shall  I  say  it  ?  —  something  mephitic 
—  septemtrional  — " 

"  To  me  your  eyes  are  just  pools  of  love." 

"  We  must  not  be  serious,  you  and  I.  We  must  be 
only  happy,  must  we  not?  " 

"  Of  course,  only  happy.  We  must  make  up  for  the 
separation." 

"  What  did  you  mean  when  you  said  in  your  letter  that 
you  had  a  premonition  of  ill  in  coming  back  to  Russia?  " 

"  I  told  you  not  to  think  of  that  —  to  pay  no  attention 
to  it.  It  was  because  I  was  worn  out  with  traveling. 
When  one  is  weary,  one  is  sad." 

"  That  is  true.  We  will  not  talk  of  it.  We  will  not 
have  any  blot  of  unpleasant  memory  upon  our  meeting." 

"  That  is  best !  "  Again  he  folded  her  in  his  arms,  and 
the  spectral  twilight  of  the  sea  looked  in  upon  their  love. 
When  she  lifted  her  face  again  it  was  merry  with  expecta- 
tion. 

"  You  are  a  faun,  are  you  not?  Let  me  see  your  ears  I 

95 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

Are  they  pointed?  I  knew  they  were!  But  your  gift  — 
where  is  it?  "  suddenly  remembering  his  last  letter  from 
the  banks  of  the  Pregel,  and  its  secret.  "  You  must  not 
forget  that.  Show  it  to  me !  I  have  thought  of  it  every 
day  since  you  wrote.  It  is  a  Venus,  you  say.  We  will  be 
happy  as  befits  your  goddess." 

"  I  will  show  it  to  you,"  he  answered,  merrily. 

He  went  into  the  adjoining  Chinese  Salon  and  took  an 
oblong  parcel  from  a  teakwood  table  by  the  door,  where 
he  had  placed  it  for  concealment  when  he  entered. 

"  I  am  going  to  translate  into  French  for  you  the  Greek 
manuscript  in  which  the  statue  came  wrapped.  Let  us  sit 
upon  this  sofa  near  the  sea-doors,"  he  continued,  as  he 
came  back  with  the  package  in  his  hand.  "  Here  the 
light  of  a  corner  candle  will  fall  directly  upon  us." 

"  How  wonderful !  "  exclaimed  Catherine  Alexevna, 
delightedly,  as  he  held  out  toward  her  an  ivory  Venus. 

u  It  is  a  work  of  art,  Catherine  Alexevna,  despite  its 
diminutiveness.  It  must  have  been  made  by  one  of  the 
masters  of  Greece." 

She  held  it  in  her  hands  and  turned  it  around  and 
around  delightedly,  the  better  to  admire  its  loveliness. 

"Where  did  you  say  it  was  found?  "  she  questioned, 
at  length. 

"  At  Chersonesus,  in  the  south  of  Russia,  which  was 
once  a  Greek  city.  It  must  have  been  founded  by  them 
before  Cleopatra  was  Queen  of  Egypt,"  he  explained, 
unfolding  the  papyrus  wrapping. 

"  Look  at  the  manuscript !  You  must  not  neglect  that. 
It  is  a  work  of  art,  too,  and  written  by  a  master." 

"  I  wish  that  I  could  read  the  manuscript  for  myself!  " 

"  But  you  cannot !  What  I  wish  you  to  notice  is  how 
peculiarly  the  statuette  resembles  you.  Not  with  exacti- 
tude, but  a  stranger,  stronger  resemblance,  as  of  spirit 

96 


NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCELAIN  SALON 

or  unmoulded  substance  made  to  shelter  the  same  self. 
Is  it  not  remarkable  when  one  considers  how  long  ago  it 
was  made?  "  he  said,  touching  the  shining  statuette  as  he 
bent  to  kiss  her.  "  The  statuette  is  for  you  —  a  gift. 
Sweets  to  the  sweet!  The  manuscript  is  mine,  to  keep 
in  remembrance  of  to-night.  Now  I  will  read  it  to 
you." 

THE  GREEK  MANUSCRIPT. 

I,  Greek  Chloris,  of  Alexandria,  servant  in  the  Temple 
of  Aphrodite,  write  this,  in  the  third  year  of  the  Great 
Queen's  reign. 

I  write  it  as  I  was  taught,  in  the  characters  of  our 
Greek  tongue,  with  a  stylus  of  gold,  on  a  tablet  of  wax, 
which  Gracchus,  the  scholar,  will  inscribe  for  me  upon 
lasting  papyrus,  and  in  ink  of  two  colors. 

The  Queen  sent  to  the  Isles  of  Greece  for  an  artist  to 
make  her  portrait  in  marble  or  ivory. 

The  artist  roaming  through  the  streets  of  our  city,  saw 
a  woman  of  extraordinary  appearance.  She  was  unlike 
other  women.  Nor  could  he  name  her  nationality. 

The  desire  came  to  him  to  reproduce  her.  But  before 
he  could  reach  her  she  had  disappeared  in  the  market 
crowd.  Thereafter,  he  sought  her,  but  without  success, 
until  one  evening  —  when  he  had  given  over  the  chase  — 
he  chanced  upon  her  walking  alone  outside  the  city.  He 
stopped  and  requested  permission  to  portray  her.  She 
refused.  Angered  at  seeing  his  plan  slip  away,  and  with- 
out pausing  to  consider,  he  picked  her  up  and  bore  her 
to  his  dwelling.  Fearing  lest  she  escape,  he  took  her  to 
a  workroom  which  no  one  entered  save  himself.  Here 
he  chained  her  to  a  column  of  marble  telling  her  that  the 
way  to  win  freedom  was  to  pose  as  he  directed.  He 
determined  to  make  a  portrait  of  her  and  make  the  Queen 
believe  it  was  a  portrait  of  herself. 

97 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

He  shut  himself  within  his  room  and  set  to  work.  He 
was  not  seen  upon  the  streets  of  Alexandria.  As  he 
worked  he  planned.  He  would  copy  her  body,  some  care- 
less gesture  of  head  or  hand,  and  thus  produce  a  statue 
novel  and  true. 

The  next  time  he  went  to  the  palace  he  told  the  Queen 
her  portrait  was  begun.  He  was  representing  her  as 
Queen  of  Love.  Her  beauty  had  been  revealed  to  him 
in  a  vision  of  the  night. 

On  his  way  home  he  pondered  over  the  mystery  of  his 
model.  Who  was  she?  No  information  could  be 
obtained  by  questioning.  She  had  persisted  in  silence. 
Then  he  began  to  dream  fondly  of  the  material  he  would 
use  in  building  his  masterpiece.  At  length  he  decided  to 
make  it  of  that  ivory  which,  in  Sidon,  they  color  the  hue 
of  flesh,  and  mount  it  upon  a  pedestal  of  jade.  The  jade 
should  be  set  upon  a  block  of  amethyst  of  wine-red  purple. 
The  eyes  should  be  sapphires;  the  points  of  the  breasts 
coral  of  palest  tint.  In  the  hands  and  about  the  feet  there 
should  be  ropes  of  pearls.  When  this  jewelled  marvel 
was  finished,  he  took  it  to  the  Queen.  Beneath  her  pleas- 
ure in  the  exquisite  trifle,  and  the  implied  flattery,  there 
was  suspicion  and  jealousy.  She  could  not  believe  that 
she  looked  like  this.  Was  there  another  woman  in  Egypt 
more  lovely?  As  she  looked  at  the  statuette  upon  its 
pedestal  of  jade  and  amethyst,  her  suspicions  crystallized 
into  certainty.  It  was  the  portrait  of  a  living  woman.  If 
it  were  not  it  could  not  possess  such  persistent  life.  In 
vain  did  she  try  to  divert  her  mind  with  affairs  of  state. 
In  vain  did  she  drift  down  the  Nile  in  her  cangia,  with 
her  there  went  the  thought  of  the  other  woman  who  was 
fairer. 

She  ordered  slaves  to  bring  mirrors  of  bronze  and  to 
uphold  them  around  her.  She  found  she  fell  short  of  the 
excellence  she  desired.  Beside  such  linear  perfection  she 
was  an  ordinary  woman. 

98 


NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCELAIN  SALON 

Thereupon,  she  gave  orders  that  every  pale  Greek 
beauty  be  brought  within  the  palace. 

The  model,  meantime,  was  dreaming  of  means  to  effect 
her  freedom.  She  had  thought  it  would  be  easy.  No  one 
had  resisted  her.  A  Greek  sculptor  should  be  the  least 
difficult  of  men.  But  she  had  reckoned  without  knowledge 
of  facts.  She  realized  that  she  had  met  a  new  man.  He 
did  not  see  her,  the  woman.  Nor,  as  time  passed,  did  his 
attitude  change.  He  merely  desired  to  steal  her  beauty 
and  fix  it  in  marble  to  assure  his  fame.  She  was  material 
with  which  he  was  to  buy  success. 

Whenever  he  left  the  house,  he  chained  her  securely  to 
a  pillar  of  marble  and  forbade  his  slaves  to  enter. 

One  day  he  had  been  working  in  a  part  of  the  dwelling 
that  overlooked  the  Nile.  The  Queen  summoned  him 
hastily  and  he  forgot  to  take  his  model  back  to  the  former 
room.  After  he  had  gone,  she  began  to  call  for  help.  A 
pearl  diver  heard  her.  He  made  haste  to  find  where  she 
was  concealed.  But  he  was  unprepared  for  the  sight  that 
met  his  eyes.  A  white  woman,  who  did  not  belong  to  any 
of  the  captive  races,  chained  to  a  pillar  of  stone. 

The  pearl  diver  was  not  an  unworthy  companion.  He 
was  slender.  He  was  graceful  as  the  reeds.  The  sun 
and  wind  had  polished  his  body  to  the  brilliancy  of  the 
black  basalt  stone.  His  face  was  stern  and  pale,  charac- 
teristics of  the  perishing  races  of  the  south. 

He  wrenched  the  chain  asunder,  almost  pulling  down 
the  column  and  the  roof  it  supported.  With  a  like  impul- 
siveness he  bore  her  to  where  his  boat  was  concealed.  He 
rowed  to  the  center  of  the  river.  They  floated  until  on 
the  right  shore  they  saw  a  ruined  tower  of  terra  cotta, 
surmounted  by  a  giant  lotus  hewn  of  stone.  Here  he  took 
the  oars  and  pulled  ashore.  When  he  reached  it,  his  com- 
panion was  asleep.  To  his  surprise  she  wore  the  robe  of 
Isis.  When  he  awoke  her  to  go  to  the  tower  which  was 
his  dwelling,  she  met  two  wonderful  eyes  looking  into  her 

99 


/  THE  WHIRLWIND 

own.  They  were  fathomless  worlds  of  blackness.  In 
looking  into  them  she  recalled  the  past.  It  was  a  world 
of  remembered  nights  lighted  by  the  moons  of  love. 

The  pearl  diver  forgot  his  curiosity  as  to  the  nationality 
of  his  companion.  She  spoke  his  language.  But  he  knew 
that  there  was  no  Egyptian  blood  in  her.  They  lived  hap- 
pily enough  together  in  the  terra  cotta  tower.  At  night 
they  wandered  through  the  bazaars,  past  the  Theater,  the 
Hippodrome,  and  the  rose-marble  facade  of  the  temple 
of  Serapis.  They  wandered  through  the  sailors'  quarter, 
by  the  booths  of  the  merchants,  or  watched  the  palace 
entrance  for  a  glimpse  of  the  Queen. 

The  sculptor  had  become  accustomed  to  the  loss  of  his 
model.  He  had  given  over  the  search.  He  was  translat- 
ing into  marble  a  plaster  sketch  he  had  made.  He  called 
it  Aphrodite.  When  it  was  finished,  it  was  placed  in  the 
temple  in  which,  I,  Greek  Chloris,  am  a  servant. 

Again,  the  rumor  spread  that  the  Queen  was  the  model. 
Again,  the  rumor  pleased  her  until  she  viewed  the  statue. 
Then  she  saw  that  it  was  another  portrait  of  the  same 
woman  of  whom  the  ivory  statuette  had  been  the  first. 
Jealousy  came  back.  She  knew  that  a  trick  had  been 
played  upon  her. 

Criers  went  through  the  streets  of  Alexandria  to 
announce  that  on  the  first  night  when  the  moon  was  full, 
there  would  be  a  fete  upon  the  river  to  celebrate  the 
betrothal  of  the  sculptor  and  the  Queen. 

News  of  this  the  pearl  diver  brought  back  to  the  lotus- 
topped  tower.  With  it  he  brought  gossip  of  the  Egyptian 
quarter  that  the  sculptor  would  be  crowned  because  of  a 
portrait  which  he  had  made  of  the  Queen.  The  people 
of  Alexandria  declared  that  the  statue  was  lovelier  than 
the  Goddess  of  Love  herself. 

To  this  his  companion  listened  in  silence. 

On  the  night  of  the  fete  a  yellow  moon  rose  over  the 
mysterious  Egyptian  land.  Palm  trees  were  penciled  like 
plumes.  Palaces  flung  upon  the  sand  shadows  faintly  pink 

100 


NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCELAIN  SALON 

like  the  pale  cornelian  stone,  across  which  figures  moved, 
white  and  clear  lined.  Night  transformed  the  river  into 
a  royal  road. 

In  the  center  of  the  craft-cortege,  where  the  light  fell 
unimpeded,  stood  a  cangia  larger  than  the  rest.  In  the 
center  of  this,  upon  a  dais,  reclined  side  by  side,  the  sculp- 
tor and  the  Queen.  The  face  of  the  sculptor  was  pale 
and  stern.  His  body  absorbed  the  purple  night  and  gave 
it  back  again. 

The  Queen  arose.  She  lifted  her  arms.  There  was 
silence.  Thereupon  she  announced  the  choice  of  a  future 
ruler. 

There  were  cries,  "  Long  live  the  Queen!  "  The  scene 
was  blotted  beneath  flowers.  Then,  suddenly,  the  eyes 
of  her  subjects  were  averted.  Silence  fell  upon  them. 
Surprised  at  the  change,  she  was  turning  to  follow  the 
direction  of  their  eyes,  when  she  happened  to  notice  the 
expression  upon  the  face  of  the  sculptor.  What  was  writ- 
ten there?  His  body  was  rigid.  In  his  eyes  there  was  a 
look  she  did  not  dare  to  probe. 

Beyond,  where  he  was  looking,  beyond  the  crowd, 
where  the  smooth  river  shone,  a  boat  floated.  Within  it, 
standing  upon  a  green  cushion,  was  a  woman  whose  body 
was  wildly  white.  Her  hair,  from  which  the  stars  struck 
light,  extended  to  her  heels.  Her  hands  and  feet  were 
bound  with  ropes  of  pearls.  And  her  eyes  were  sapphires 
of  sweetest  hue.  At  her  feet  lay  a  purple  cloak.  At  the 
other  end  of  the  boat  stood  a  young  Egyptian,  motion- 
less. 

Here  was  the  duplicate  of  the  statuette.  The  Queen 
was  stricken  dumb.  Slowly  at  length  from  the  surprise 
that  disabled  her,  thoughts  detached  themselves.  And  the 
silence  of  the  people?  It  meant  they,  too,  understood. 
The  courtiers  had  seen  the  statuette  in  the  palace.  The 
people  had  seen  the  statue  in  the  temple.  And  her  own 
name  coupled  with  that  other  woman's  beauty  had  circled 
the  Inland  Sea.  These  facts  she  understood. 

101 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

"  Soldiers !  "  she  called,  "  bring  to  me  within  the  palace 
that  white  Greek  woman!  " 

The  command  had  been  heard  by  the  occupants  of  the 
distant  boat.  The  diver  swept  the  oars.  The  boat  swung 
southward  and  disappeared. 

That  night  the  Queen  paced  her  chamber  and  medi- 
tated revenge.  At  dawn  the  idea  came  appropriate  to  the 
crime  and  commensurate  in  cruelty.  There  was  no  use  in 
approaching  the  sculptor  for  information.  She  would 
have  no  satisfaction  from  him.  Summoning  her  council- 
lors she  addressed  them: 

"  Men  of  Egypt,  I  have  decided  that  the  sculptor  be 
buried  alive  beneath  the  marble  pedestal  of  the  statue 
which  is  the  portrait  of  the  woman  he  loved." 

In  silence  the  sculptor  heard  his  doom,  but  in  his  eyes 
there  was  no  fear. 

After  the  sculptor's  death  the  Queen  was  still  in  a  fever 
of  unrest.  Months  later,  to  make  her  subjects  believe  that 
the  subject  was  forgotten,  she  gave  a  masked  fete  upon  the 
Nile.  In  this  way  she  might  find  the  woman  she  sought. 

Again  the  diver  brought  word  of  the  fete  to  the  terra 
cotta  tower.  Again  they  decided  to  be  present.  This 
time  the  model  wore  the  robe  and  veil  of  Isis.  The  diver 
rented  in  a  mercantile  street  of  the  Egyptian  quarter  a 
long  sleeved,  bordered  robe  of  the  red  of  Sardis,  such  as 
are  worn  by  Lydian  men.  They  hired  a  pleasure  boat 
and  reached  the  place  of  the  fete.  The  Queen  discovered 
them.  She  ordered  an  official  to  arrest  them  and  take 
them  captive.  She  called  to  her  soldiers  to  surround  them. 
The  crowd  was  breathless  with  expectation,  when,  moved 
by  a  power  which  only  the  gods  may  possess,  the  woman 
rose  above  their  heads.  The  robe  fluttered  down.  It 
vanished.  At  a  distance  she  unwound  for  an  instant  the 
mysterious  veil.  The  frightened  Egyptians  glimpsed  for 
the  first  time  the  stern  features  of  Isis.  The  boat  of  the 
diver  became  invisible  upon  the  water.  The  divine  face 

102 


NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCELAIN  SALON 

melted  into  the  night.  The  frightened  people  lifted 
hands  of  prayer.  The  Queen  had  incurred  the  dis- 
pleasure of  the  gods.  She  had  been  unkind  to  Love. 

Some  months  later  the  diver  was  wandering  through 
the  Greek  quarter  of  our  city  when  he  happened  to  pass 
the  Temple  where  the  sculptor  had  met  his  death.  He 
entered  the  garden  that  surrounds  it  because  of  the  cool- 
ness of  its  ten  thousand  palm  trees.  He  walked  on  and 
crossed  the  portal.  He  penetrated  to  the  sanctuary. 
Here,  surprise  and  joy  overwhelmed  him.  He  saw  again 
his  companion  of  the  lotus  tower,  whom  he  had  once 
found  chained  to  a  column  of  marble. 

I,  Greek  Chloris,  who  was  watching  concealed  behind 
an  incense  burner  carved  of  the  tiger  colored  marble  of 
Numidia,  saw  the  statue  take  fire  and  step  down  from  its 
pedestal.  I  heard,  then,  kisses.  And  I,  who  have  always 
served  in  the  Temples  of  Aphrodite,  heard  never  such 
words  of  love.  When  the  rosy  mist  had  vanished  and  I 
could  see,  there  in  the  center  of  the  room  were  two  statues. 
The  statue  of  Aphrodite  was  flushed  pink.  Beside  it  stood 
a  statue  of  youth  such  as  the  Egyptians  carve  out  of  their 
black  basalt  stone,  and  which  held  above  the  head  of  Aph- 
rodite, our  Goddess,  pearls  of  magnificent  luster. 

I,  Greek  Chloris,  servant  in  the  Temple  of  Aphrodite, 
saw  this,  in  the  third  year  of  the  Great  Queen's  reign.  I 
write  it  down  as  I^was  taught  in  the  characters  of  our 
Greek  tongue,  with  a  stylus  of  gold  upon  a  tablet  of  wax. 

"  Remember,  Catherine  Alexevna,  that  in  the  fable  the 
statuette  caused  the  death  of  the  giver.  In  that  respect  I 
trust  that  history  will  not  repeat  itself.  And  I  wish  you 
to  remember,  too,  that  Venus  is  a  goddess  who  is  always 
being  born  again.  Does  not  the  statue  prove  it?  Every 
period  of  time  that  reaches  a  high  point  of  vitality  gives 
birth  to  a  Venus.  She  is  an  indestructible  goddess.  Men 
have  given  her,  who  is  always  the  same,  various  names. 

103 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

She  was  Ishtar  in  Babylon,  Ashtaroth  in  Assyria,  Isis  in 
Egypt,  Aphrodite  in  Greece,  Venus  in  Rome,  and  now 
she  is  Catherine  Alexevna  in  Eighteenth  Century  Russia. 
I  bow  to  la  Venus  muscovitef  "  he  exclaimed,  merrily,  jest 
and  pleasure  ringing  in  his  voice. 

"  This  fable  does  please  me,  Nicholas  Murievich.  But 
jest  aside,  the  figure  has  a  certain  resemblance  to  me. 
Only,  there  is  something  about  the  face  that  is  cold  —  and 
a  little  cruel.  It  is,  perhaps,  the  expression  of  the  soul  of 
an  earlier  and  a  different  age." 

"  Of  course  it  resembles  you  !  The  men  in  the  army  by 
the  Pregel  saw  it.  They  spoke  of  it  at  once.  So  did 
others.  It  gives  them  faith  in  you." 

"  It  makes  them  think  that  I  am  unconquerable.  I  have 
thought  that,  too,  sometimes  myself,"  she  added,  thought- 
fully. 

"  And  I  have  been  recreated  again  after  the  centuries 
to  love  you.  Do  I  not  look  as  if  I  belonged  to  the  fable? 
Am  I  not  a  diver  for  pearls?  Do  you  not  remember  me 
now?  In  the  fable  love  brought  the  marble  Venus  back 
to  life.  I  will  bring  the  Muscovite  Venus  back  to  life, 
give  her  the  sense  of  reality  and  the  warmth  of  joy.  Why 
should  not  that  be  true,  Catherine  Alexevna  ?  Is  not  my 
heart  wholly  yours?  Is  it  not  true  that  I  love  you  for 
yourself  and  not  for  any  other  reason  ?  Nothing  is  impos- 
sible in  Russia!  " 

She  started  at  the  word  Russia.  It  recalled  her  to 
necessity.  It  recalled  the  present.  But  the  happy  dream 
lent  its  softness  to  her  face  and  its  pleasant  unreality  to  a 
future  that  each  day  brought  threateningly  near.  Still, 
there  was  a  little  margin  of  time  left  over  in  which  to 
dream  and  be  happy.  Nicholas  Murievich  continued: 

"  What  Count  Bestushev  said  —  in  your  letter  to  me  — 
must  be  done,  must  be  done.  The  Grand  Duke  must  die." 

104 


NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCELAIN  SALON 

She  was  glad  for  that  margin  of  time.  She  wished  it 
might  be  prolonged  into  an  eternity  that  would  shut  off 
the  need  of  action. 

"  The  Grand  Duke  must  die !  You  will  reign  alone. 
You  will  be  supreme.  Then  will  you  not  place  me  beside 
you?  It  is  you  I  love,  not  your  position." 

She  felt  the  tugging  undertow  of  the  sea  of  intrigue 
that  surrounded  her  and  which  would  now  increase  rap- 
idly with  the  days  and  which  she  could  not  always  resist. 
Soon,  it  would  be  sweeping  her  onward  from  space  to 
unknown  space.  She  saw  this  clearly.  Yet  she  could  not 
resist  it  nor  could  she  grieve.  The  voice  continued : 

'  To-day  men  of  every  position  are  standing  close  by 
the  thrones  of  Europe.  Why  should  not  Nicholas  Murie- 
vich?" 

"  Why  not?  "  she  replied,  in  a  voice  she  did  not  recog- 
nize, and  feeling  that  nothing  was  real  but  the  present. 
Suppose  she  should  take  a  stand  at  once  and  fight  for  the 
things  she  personally  desired,  the  things  that  were  best 
for  her?  And  yet  would  it  be  possible  with  any  show  of 
success  as  goal?  Would  anyone  have  the  physical  or 
mental  resistance  to  do  it?  And  if  she  did  do  it,  was  it 
not  true  that  in  the  general  bouleversement  there  would 
be  no  counting  upon  anything,  and  greater  insecurity 
would  result?  Might  she  not  lose  what  she  now  had  with 
a  possible  nothing  gained?  And  what  was  the  use  of 
struggling  with  the  question  just  at  present,  anyway? 
Still,  there  was  a  little  margin  of  time.  She  would  talk 
of  something  else  and  forget.  She  would  talk  of  some- 
thing else. 

'  What  did  you  mean,  Nicholas  Murievich,  by  saying 
that  Gregory  Orlov  was  like  the  false  hero  in  the  fable?  " 

"  Do  you  not  know  yourself?  " 

"No;  how  could  I?" 

105 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

"  He  —  of  the  fable  —  was  false  to  love  and  he 
failed." 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  Orlov?  " 

"Does  he  not  love  another?"  he  questioned,  signifi- 
cantly. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  now.    What  is  it?  " 

"  Is  it  possible  you  have  not  heard?  " 

11 1  have  heard  nothing." 

The  desired  change  of  subject  was  not  promising  to  be 
too  happily  forgetful. 

"  Gregory  Orlov  is  in  love  with  Maschuta.  He  has 
been  mad  over  her  for  a  longer  time  than  I  can  tell." 

"Gregory!" 

1  Yes,  Gregory." 

"  Ah !  —  now  I  recall  his  face  that  night  at  the  Dres- 
den Woman's,  when  he  looked  at  her.  I  wrote  you  about 
it  at  the  time." 

"  For  her,  Catherine  Alexevna,  he  has  committed  all 
the  follies  a  man  can  commit  for  a  woman.  He  insisted 
upon  taking  her  away  to  the  army  with  him.  He  felt  he 
could  not  be  separated  from  her.  They  have  been  the 
talk  of  the  clubs  and  the  salons  of  Petersburg." 

"  But  I  have  heard  nothing  of  it!  "  declared  Catherine 
Alexevna.  "  Why  has  it  been  withheld  from  me?  "  she 
thought,  her  mind  reviewing  the  subject  swiftly. 

"  Is  it  because  of  the  liking  of  women  for  Orlov?  Is 
it  because  they  wish  to  see  me  pay  for  his  attentions  ?  Or, 
is  it  malicious  pleasure  in  seeing  me  duped?  " 

Then,  she  realized  more  forcibly  than  usual  the  skill 
that  a  person  placed  like  herself  must  have  who  is  required 
to  go  ahead  with  blindfolded  eyes. 

"  But  why  has  not  Count  Bestushev  told  me,  Nicholas 
Murievich?  He  knows  it,  of  course,  since  there  is  noth- 
ing he  does  not  know." 

106 


"  Count  Bestushev  helped  it  for  a  time.  He  prefers 
Orlov  for  several  reasons.  First,  because  he  is  Russian. 
In  addition,  he  is  the  idol  of  the  army.  And  he  is  ambi- 
tious for  pleasure,  money,  not  for  political  power.  But 
most  important  of  all,  he  knows  that  Orlov  does  not  love 
you.  For  him  you  would  not  do  extravagant  or  unreason- 
able things." 

Intrigue !  Intrigue !  It  was  an  entangling  web  of  infi- 
nite extent  that  smothered  and  bound  her.  And  there  was 
no  way  to  escape  it. 

*  That  is  why  Maschuta  hates  me !  " 

"  No,  not  wholly,  Catherine  Alexevna.  Maschuta 
does  not  love  Orlov.  She  is  ambitious  to  take  a  hand  in 
affairs.  She  is  greedy  for  power.  She  hates  everyone 
who  has  it.  She  would  throw  Orlov  over  to-day  for  the 
Grand  Duke,  if  she  could  get  him  away  from  Elizabeth 
Woronzov." 

The  words  of  Nicholas  Murievich  made  an  impression 
upon  Catherine  Alexevna.  As  he  spoke,  a  vision  touched 
the  surface  of  her  mind,  fleeting  as  a  skimming  bird's 
wing,  a  vision  of  a  cliff  by  the  sea,  eaten  by  angry  water 
into  perilous  traps  and  holes,  slippery,  sometimes  of  sharp 
declivity,  uncertain ;  and  upon  this  she  was  forced  to  walk 
under  darkness  and  fog.  Then,  the  vision  reduced  itself 
to  one  of  the  component  parts  of  which  it  was  composed. 
The  general  became  the  individual  and  she  reviewed 
quickly  the  intimacy  of  Orlov  and  herself  the  past  winter, 
their  revelries,  his  devotion.  And  it  had  all  been  feigned! 
She  saw  the  destructive  and  humiliating  truth.  And  she 
saw  as  plainly  as  that  night  at  the  Dresden  Woman's  the 
evil  flash  of  Maschuta's  white  teeth.  She  was  beginning 
to  see  what  after  years  would  force  her  to  see  time  and 
again,  that,  despite  her  beauty  and  her  position,  no  man 
would  love  her  for  herself. 

107 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

Gregory  Orlov  did  not  love  her!  His  interest  in  her 
was  self  interest.  She  represented  success.  When  Greg- 
ory Orlov  was  with  her,  it  was  not  because  he  wished  to 
be.  It  was  because  there,  beside  her,  was  the  chance  of 
life  for  him.  And  yet  the  game  must  go  on.  Always  a 
game!  She  appreciated  at  the  same  time  the  humor  of 
the  situation  which  made  her,  the  Grand  Duchess,  depend- 
ent upon  an  officer  of  the  guards,  without  birth  or  for- 
tune. Each  fact  that  living  taught  helped  to  isolate  her, 
to  make  her  alone.  It  put  into  her  heart  the  unuttered 
desire  for  love.  This  clairvoyant  vision,  that  went  as 
directly  to  basic  matter  as  a  burning  acid,  was  tragic.  It 
was  not  pleasant  for  her.  It  was  not  attractive  to  others. 
Where  it  gained  in  power,  it  lost  in  charm.  Each  fact  of 
life  was  like  the  chisel  stroke  of  a  sculptor.  Each  stroke 
was  cruel  and  enlightening,  and  lopped  off  kindly  illusions 
which  were  in  the  habit  of  sheltering  happiness.  Each 
stroke  gave  distinctness  to  unpleasant  facts  that  otherwise 
might  have  been  disregarded. 

The  pleasant  voice  of  Nicholas  Murievich  was  contin- 
uing its  murmured  accompaniment  to  her  meditation. 

"  I  am  telling  you  this  as  a  proof  of  my  love.  I  am 
the  only  one  in  the  world  who  tells  you  the  truth  freed  of 
selfish  interests." 

That  was  a  little  sentence;  but  what  a  world  of  bitter 
meaning  it  held. 

"  And  just  as  soon  as  they  who  are  in  power  find  it 
out,  they  will  try  to  bring  about  my  destruction." 

Was  there  nothing  for  them  who  loved  her  but  death 
and  destruction?  Upon  her  face  there  was  no  trace  of 
emotion.  Did  she  feel  any?  She  wished  sincerely  that 
it  was  not  so.  She  would  have  changed  it  if  she  could. 
But  the  listening  gave  her  pleasure.  The  voice  went  on: 
'  The  eyes  of  love  are  sharp,  Catherine  Alexevna. 

108 


NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCELAIN  SALON 

They  have  a  vision  that  equals  that  of  the  winged  brain 
of  Count  Bestushev.  Nothing  can  escape  them.  Noth- 
ing can  deceive  them." 

Catherine  Alexevna  felt  the  sincerity  of  the  words. 
They  rang  true.  She  felt  the  security  of  a  love  that  noth- 
ing could  change. 

"  I  believe  you,  Nicholas  Murievich,"  she  replied,  find- 
ing relief  from  that  torturing  vision.  Why  should  she 
not  make  this  real  and  permanent,  this  possibility  of  love 
and  peace?  Why  should  she  not  bow  to  happiness  when 
it  presented  its  smiling  face?  The  tender  voice  was  con- 
tinuing its  accompaniment  to  her  thoughts. 

"  See !  Catherine  Alexevna,"  indicating  the  pearl-like 
walls  and  the  sea.  "  This  must  be  like  the  places  where 
we  met  before  —  in  that  earlier  day.  Do  you  remem- 
ber?" 

The  candles  were  all  but  burned  to  their  sockets.  A 
cold  phosphorescence  from  the  water  sent  an  eerie  motion 
over  the  porcelain  walls  until  in  the  colorless  light  which 
was  neither  day  nor  night,  the  room  resembled  the  inside 
of  a  pearl  in  some  subterranean  cavern  of  the  sea.  For 
the  moment,  it  was  as  if  they  were  generations  away  from 
Russia  and  its  turbulent  life. 

"  And  you  are  still  clad  in  the  foam  of  your  old  sea- 
birth  !  "  he  added,  gayly. 

Who  could  resist  such  infectious  happiness?  Her  heart 
grew  warm  in  the  gracious  contact  of  love  and  youth. 
When  he  spoke  again,  it  was  to  revert  to  the  difficult 
present. 

"  I  feel,  Catherine  Alexevna,  that  I  must  impress  upon 
you  what  will  await  me,  when  it  is  known  you  love  me. 
My  life  will  be  at  stake.  The  ambitious  men  of  Russia 
will  pursue  me.  It  must  be  kept  secret!  If  it  should  be 
known,  the  only  person  who  could  ensure  my  safety  would 

109 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

be  yourself.    My  life  will  depend  upon  you,  until  you  are 
at  the  head  of  affairs." 

"You  do  not  think  I  would  fail  you,  do  you?  How 
could  you  think  such  a  thing?  " 

"  No,  not  willingly,"  he  answered.  "  But  suppose  your 
hand  were  forced?  Suppose  some  compelling  situation 
presented  itself?  " 

"  I  should  be  equal  to  it." 

"  I  do  not  know  why,  Catherine  Alexevna,  but  I  feel 
impelled  to  insist  upon  this.  Something  tells  me  that  we 
shall  not  have  —  in  the  present  rush  of  affairs  —  such 
another  opportunity  to  be  together.  Something  tells  me 
that  there  is  danger  ahead  which  only  you  can  avert." 

Nicholas  Murievich  put  his  impetuous  young  arms 
about  her  and  together  they  stood  in  silence  by  the  open 
sea-doors,  while  night  silvered  softly  into  a  dawn  that  was 
as  pale  as  the  night  had  been.  He  forgot  his  momentary 
fear.  The  old,  buoyant  happiness  reasserted  itself. 

"  Just  a  little  while  now,  Catherine  Alexevna !  Just  a 
little  while,  and  we  shall  not  have  to  part  in  the  dawn  like 
this!  Soon,  her  Majesty  will  die.  The  Grand  Duke  will 
—  will  —  well,  we  all  know  what.  It  does  not  take  pro- 
phetic power  to  know  that.  You  will  reign.  And  then  for 
love's  sake  you  will  put  me  beside  you." 

She  nodded  a  happy  acquiescence  in  his  arms.  And 
again  silence  followed. 

Suddenly,  Catherine  Alexevna  lifted  her  head  from  his 
shoulder.  Her  face  had  changed.  It  had  hardened.  It 
had  grown  less  lovely  and  perceptibly  older.  It  was  not 
tender  with  emotion.  Her  body  seemed  likewise  to  have 
changed,  and  become  less  gently  lined. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  queried  Nicholas  Murievich, 
looking  anxiously  into  her  eyes  which  were  turned  toward 
the  doorway  that  led  into  the  Chinese  Salon. 

no 


NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCELAIN  SALON 

"  If  you  would  look,  you  would  see  it,  too,"  she  replied, 
disengaging  herself  speedily  from  his  arms. 

"  What  is  it,  dear  one?  "  he  murmured. 

"  A  black  phantom  dancing  over  the  flowers  there  by 
the  Chinese  Salon.  And  it  is  —  //  is  Count  Bestushev!  " 

"  It  is  an  optical  illusion.    That  is  all." 

"  No,  that  is  not  all.  It  is  taller  than  he  is,  Count  Bes- 
tushev,  to  be  sure.  And  its  legs,  like  his,  are  long  and 
thin!  They  melt  into  feet,  black  and  thin!  They  are 
dancing  toward  me.  And  they  do  not  come  nearer.  They 
stand  in  the  same  place.  The  arms  are  as  long  as  the 
legs.  And  the  face  is  white  and  deathlike,  yet  grinning 
with  the  merciless  merriment  of  anger.  Not  only  do  I 
see  him,  but  I  feel  his  presence.  I  feel  his  presence!  " 

"  Dearest,  that  is  just  one  of  the  Chinese  figures  in  the 
adjoining  room  to  which  the  uncertain  light  gives  transient 
life.  The  candle  smoke  is  suspended  there.  Light  gives 
it  semblance  of  motion.  Let  me  kiss  away  the  memory. 
But  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  You,  too,  have  changed. 
Your  face  has  another  expression." 

"  Nothing  at  all,  Nicholas  Murievich.  I  have  just 
thought  again  of  what  you  wrote  me  about  the  Prussian 
King,  the  mysterious  something  that  is  going  to  have  such 
effect  upon  me  that  it  will  bend  me  to  his  will.  Did  you 
not  find  out  more  about  it?  Do  you  not  know  anything 
definite?" 

"  No,  it  was  something  hinted  of,  but  not  explained. 
His  spies  will  divulge  it.  They  will  use  it  as  their  last 
card  in  stopping  the  war." 

"  But  now  I  am  prepared  for  it,  no  matter  how  surpris- 
ing it  may  be.  Is  it  known  that  he  has  this  something 
which  will  change  everything?  " 

"  Yes  —  I  think  so  —  It  was  the  gossip  of  the  army. 
The  soldiers  were  on  the  qui  vive  to  find  out  about  it." 

in 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

Again,  Catherine  Alexevna  had  become  the  vigilant 
woman  of  affairs. 

The  mystic  love-moons  of  Saturn  had  set.  In  their 
place  was  rising  the  cold,  gray  dawn  of  Russia. 

"  He  does  not  know  how  I  am  Russianized  —  King 
Frederick!" 

"  Catherine  Alexevna,  you  seem  as  far  away  as  if  I 
were  by  the  banks  of  the  Pregel.  You  are  changed." 

"  No,  Nicholas  Murievich,  I  am  not  changed.  Day  is 
near.  Worry  of  affairs  is  claiming  me.  I  must  think  of 
them.  It  is  only  by  thinking  of  them  that  a  future  is  pos- 
sible." 

"  But  suppose,  Catherine  Alexevna,  in  these  changing 
moods  that  claim  you,  that  something  should  happen  that 
would  separate  us.  Suppose  —  Suppose  —  You  know 
that  nothing  is  impossible  here." 

"  It  is  impossible !  I  understand  that  you  love  me  for 
myself  alone.  I  hold  fast  to  that." 

"In  a  time  like  this,  of  course,  no  one  can  guess  what 
the  combinations  of  fate  may  be." 

Then  his  happy,  careless  artist's  nature  reasserted  it- 
self and  his  heart  became  lyric  with  happiness. 

"  What  things  we  will  do  together,  you  and  I,  Cath- 
erine Alexevna !  Peter  the  Great  worked  for  the  north 
and  the  west  —  for  the  Baltic.  You  and  I  will  work  for 
the  south.  We  will  conquer  Greece  and  Turkey.  Our 
winter  capital  shall  be  Byzantium,  which  we  will  rechris- 
ten  Czarograd,  the  City  of  the  Czars." 

For  the  moment  she  was  swept  away  by  the  fervor  of 
his  youthful  dream,  forgetting  the  folly  of  it  and  the  dif- 
ference in  rank  between  them. 

"  Yes,  yes  —  when  you  and  I  are  in  power !  Peter  the 
Great  dreamed  of  making  the  Baltic  the  Mediterranean 
of  the  north.  You  and  I  will  go  back  to  the  old,  blue  Med- 

112 


iterranean  of  the  south,"  added  Catherine  Alexevna,  trail- 
ing her  billowing  gauzes  across  the  piled  iris  and  crocus 
blossoms  upon  the  floor. 

"  That  is  what  we  will  do  —  you  and  1 1  When  the 
white  flies  swarm  in  the  autumn,  we  will  rush  away  to  our 
palace  by  the  Bosporus.  And  when  the  crocus  and  the 
iris  call  the  spring,  we  will  come  back  to  Petersburg.  My 
ambitious  dreams  will  fly  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  I  will 
make  Russia  a  world  power." 

"  But  remember,  Catherine  Alexevna,  if  it  should  be 
known  —  our  love  —  they  will  kill  me.  That  is  why  I 
brought  this  ivory  Love  to  shield  you,  to  keep  whispering 
to  you,  memento!  "  he  said,  kissing  her  good-by. 

Catherine  Alexevna  stood  by  the  sea-doors  after  Nicho- 
las Murievich  had  gone,  watching  the  spectral  dawn  upon 
the  wilting  tropic  flowers  within  the  urns  beside  the 
entrance,  and  the  bleached,  metallic  surface  of  the  Gulf. 
It  seemed  to  her,  after  a  time,  that  those  delightful, 
happy  hours  with  Nicholas  Murievich  were  something 
that  happened  ages  ago.  She  was  not  sure  that  they  had 
really  happened  anywhere.  The  only  thing  that  told  that 
they  had  was  the  ivory  Venus  upon  the  sofa  by  the  doors. 
As  she  looked,  it,  too,  looked  different.  It  had  the  domi- 
nant whiteness  of  a  fact,  of  something'  too  real  to  take  its 
pleasant  place  among  dreaming  uncertainties.  Everything 
else  had  taken  on  its  customary  unreality.  Her  heart  felt 
dry  and  hard.  It  was  as  if  she  were  living  somewhere 
outside  herself.  She  had  no  desire  for  rest.  She  felt  the 
old  craving  for  the  things  that  exhaust  the  body.  Slowly, 
she  made  her  way  to  her  apartments,  down  the  long  Chi- 
nese Salon  whose  black  lacquer  was  dulled,  and  whose  gold 
showed  eerily  the  shifting  foam  of  her  gauzes,  and  whose 
monsters  seized  upon  her  with  their  greedy,  uncompre- 
hending eyes. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ORLOV 

Gregory  Orlov  moved  among  the  picturesque  person- 
alities of  Petersburg,  a  figure  at  once  daring,  blond,  beau- 
tiful and  young,  and  above  all  the  darling  of  Fortune, 
who,  despite  her  fickleness,  was  faithful  to  him.  If  he 
had  been  given  to  thought  and  philosophizing,  he  would 
have  wondered  why,  without  even  desire  on  his  part,  he 
had  been  lifted  from  an  obscure  place  among  the  people  to 
be  made  the  companion  of  princes.  But  he  did  not  think 
very  much  and  he  philosophized  less.  In  a  life  so  suc- 
cessfully arranged  for  him,  there  was  no  need.  When- 
ever he  wished  for  anything,  he  held  up  his  handsome 
hands  and  it  dropped  down  upon  them. 

Gregory  Orlov  was  tall,  muscular  and  lithe,  with  merry 
brown  eyes,  dimples,  thick  curling  hair  of  gold,  and  the 
fair  complexion  of  a  child.  Years  did  not  change  this 
beautiful  fairness;  nor  did  dissipation,  nor  exposure  in 
the  army.  He  might  have  been  a  marble  man  so  little  did 
living  mar  him.  None  of  the  hardships  of  life  touched 
him.  He  did  not  know  the  want  of  anything.  His  wishes 
were  gratified.  But  in  the  slow  course  of  time,  as  the 
years  piled  up,  he  suffered  from  the  overfeeding  of  pros- 
perity. 

There  were  five  of  the  brothers  Orlov.  The  three 
youngest  were  guardsmen,  while  Alexis,  who  was  the 
strongest  man  in  Russia  and  one  of  the  tallest,  and  Greg- 
ory had  reached  the  rank  of  officers.  They  were  of 

114 


ORLOV 

obscure  birth.  They  did  not  possess  wealth.  The  pat- 
rimony left  by  their  father  they  squandered  with  careless 
merriment.  After  that,  wealth  fell  so  richly  to  the  share 
of  Gregory  and  Alexis  that  they  tossed  on  gold  to  their 
greedy  brothers.  Their  beauty  and  fine  figures  advanced 
them  in  the  army.  Generals  prefer  handsome  officers. 
The  brothers  Orlov  were  in  demand.  In  addition,  they 
were  fearless  to  a  degree  that  was  unequalled.  They  had 
nothing  but  life  to  lose.  If  they  did  not  win,  they  could 
not  be  greatly  the  worse.  So  they  set  life  gayly  on  any 
venture. 

Neither  Gregory  Orlov  nor  his  brother  Alexis  were 
men  of  ability  either  as  politicians  or  men  of  affairs,  as 
such  things  are  counted.  Nor  did  they  possess  cultivation 
or  the  refinement  of  learning.  Their  rise  to  world  promi- 
nence is  one  of  those  exhibitions  of  fact  which  must  be 
surveyed  with  wonder.  After  the  death  of  their  father 
and  the  squandering  of  their  patrimony,  there  was  a  time 
—  although  but  brief  —  when  they  did  not  possess  a 
copeck.  Then  they  developed  a  passion  for  gambling 
in  which  they  were  as  reckless  as  they  were  successful. 
Their  fame  at  cards  was  phenomenal.  Luck  never 
deserted  them.  There  were  weeks  when  gold  flowed  like 
a  river  Into  their  rapacious  pockets.  They  became  men 
of  fashion,  Russian  exquisites,  whose  amours  furnished 
subject  of  conversation  in  drawing  rooms  of  Moscow, 
Kiev  and  Petersburg.  Since  his  intimacy  with  the  Grand 
Duchess,  the  fame  of  Gregory  Orlov  had  spread  abroad. 
His  name  was  known  to  the  gamins  and  the  boulevardiers 
of  Paris.  Jests  were  told  at  his  expense  in  provincial 
cities.  Allusions  to  the  Russian  Apollo  were  heard  upon 
the  stage  throughout  a  continent. 

To  France  he  had  become  the  beau  ideal  of  Slavic 
beauty.  Physically  he  was  in  truth  the  fine  flower  of  an 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

extravagant  age.  He  was  gossiped  of  at  the  courts  of 
Dresden,  Vienna,  Berlin,  Versailles.  Court  ladies  asked 
returning  ambassadors  to  tell  them  of  Gregory  Orlov. 
Romantic  and  impossible  stories  were  circulated  at  his 
expense  and  the  fame  of  a  professional  beauty  had  become 
his. 

He  possessed  a  talent  for  luxurious  living  which  was 
beginning  to  express  itself  in  a  liking  for  fine  furs,  horses 
and  pearls.  Since  his  return  from  the  war,  he  had  been 
made  treasurer  of  the  artillery,  and  his  arms  were  deep 
in  the  gold  of  Russia.  It  was  since  his  return,  too,  that 
his  ambition  had  begun  to  take  a  bolder  rise.  Nothing 
was  impossible  in  Russia.  No  one  had  better  reason 
to  know  this  than  he.  Had  he  not  seen  old  Count 
Alexis  Razumovsky,  who  was  once  a  church  singer  in 
Little  Russia,  spend  his  days  by  the  throne?  Biron  had 
been  a  stable  boy.  And  he  had  ruled !  Why  should  not 
he?  Yet,  with  him  it  was  not  really  ambition  propelled 
by  reason  and  expressed  in  words,  it  was  the  blind  follow- 
ing of  an  instinct.  He  was  feeling  the  electric  thrill  of 
the  wave  of  fortune  which  in  years  to  come  was  to  make 
him  —  although  an  uneducated  man  of  the  people  —  set 
a  pace  in  extravagant  living  for  a  world. 

There  was  just  one  thing  that  stood  in  the  way  of  Greg- 
ory Orlov's  advancement,  and  that  was  his  love  for  Mas- 
chuta.  Through  his  amours  and  adventures  he  had 
remained  true  to  this.  And  this  was  something  to  be  proud 
of  which  Maschuta  did  not  appreciate.  Maschuta  was 
dangerous,  and  difficult  to  manage.  To  him  she  was  as 
fascinating  as  she  was  dangerous.  She  was  at  once  a 
lure  and  a  menace,  which  he  could  not  resist.  And  at 
present  not  to  resist  her  was  an  important  hindrance  to 
him.  He  and  his  brothers  were  leading  the  conspiracy 
in  the  army  which  was  to  put  Catherine  Alexevna  upon 

116 


ORLOV 

the  throne.  When  he  put  her  there  everything  depended 
—  for  his  brothers  and  himself  —  upon  putting  himself 
beside  her.  The  presence  of  Maschuta  unbalanced  the 
equation.  And  yet,  it  was  Maschuta  he  loved.  He  had 
heard  floating  reports  of  late,  too,  of  Maschuta's  friend- 
ship with  the  Grand  Duke.  He  knew  that  she  hated  Cath- 
erine Alexevna.  He  knew  that  he  could  not  be  sure  of  his 
control  of  her. 

His  attachment  for  Maschuta  was  something  of  years' 
standing.  Now,  it  had  for  him  the  endearing  tenderness 
of  the  passions  that  belong  to  youth.  It  began  when  he 
entered  the  army,  when  he  was  not  even  a  subordinate 
officer,  but  merely  the  petted  beauty  of  superiors.  It  was 
in  Nishni-Novgorod  at  the  great  yearly  fair  of  central 
Russia.  Here  he  saw  her  dancing.  The  first  glance  bound 
his  fickle  heart  to  her.  This  was  her  first  attempt  to  force 
a  way  northward  toward  the  dazzling  city  of  her  desire  — 
Petersburg.  Every  day  he  was  in  the  crowd  that  watched 
her.  A  few  years  later  he  found  her  in  Kiev  and  the  cities 
of  the  Ukraine,  likewise  at  the  fairs  dancing.  She  had  not 
been  able  to  continue  her  progress  northward  and  had 
slipped  back  toward  the  older  cities  of  the  south.  It  was 
in  Kiev  that  he  became  acquainted  with  her.  He  too  had 
begun  his  upward  climb  and  he  was  wearing  the  decora- 
tions of  an  officer.  In  imitation  of  his  superiors  whose 
affairs  of  the  heart  were  known  to  him,  he  determined 
to  have  Maschuta.  He  always  had  everything  he  wished, 
why  should  he  not  have  her?  But  to  his  surprise  Mas- 
chuta would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him  beyond  the  lim- 
its of  merry  friendship.  Even  then,  young  as  she  was,  the 
gipsy  had  seen  ambition  and  the  flattery  of  power  in  the 
distance,  made  possible  by  her  dancing,  and  her  personal 
charm  which  she  was  learning  to  understand  and  to  esti- 
mate. Greater  than  love  and  its  gratification  with  the 

117 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

beauty  of  the  Russian  army,  was  her  greed  for  these 
things.  In  addition,  there  was  a  peculiar  hatred  in  her 
heart  for  those  who  were  more  fortunate  than  herself. 
It  was  not  love  or  the  flattery  of  a  moment  which  she  was 
eager  for,  but  something  better,  position  and  security  of 
living.  This  happened  five  years  before  the  time  of  which 
we  are  writing.  And  now  Maschuta,  although  she  still 
affected  largely  the  dress  of  a  gipsy,  was  the  first  dancer 
of  Petersburg  and,  as  regards  her  relations  with  men,  a 
woman  of  unblemished  reputation. 

On  the  afternoon  on  which  this  chapter  opens  she  had 
come  to  Gregory  Orlov's  rooms  to  demand  that  he  keep 
the  promise  of  marriage  which  he  had  made  when  he 
brought  her  to  Petersburg  and  procured  her  admission  to 
the  Imperial  Ballet  School. 

Gregory  Orlov  had  just  rented  and  moved  into  the 
pretentious  wooden  house  of  the  court  banker,  Krulsen. 
on  the  corner  of  the  Great  Morskoi  and  the  Nevsky  Pros- 
pect, nearly  opposite  the  Winter  Palace.  Here  he  had 
been  living  with  his  brothers  in  a  characteristic  confusion 
of  luxury,  bad  taste  and  discomfort,  since  he  had  been 
made  treasurer  of  the  artillery  and  wealth  had  been  added 
to  his  fame. 

When  Maschuta  entered,  he  was  examining  some 
pearls  which  a  traveling  Syrian  merchant  had  left  for  his 
inspection,  and  of  which  he  was  becoming  an  acknowl- 
edged judge.  He  was  in  the  happiest  of  moods.  His  face 
was  like  a  gloom  dispelling  sun.  But  a  glance  at  Mas- 
chuta's  face  as  she  entered  told  him  that  the  interview 
was  not  to  be  an  altogether  pleasant  one.  That  day,  for 
the  first  time,  had  come  to  him  a  sharp  impression  that 
she  did  not  belong  to  the  world  in  which  he  was  moving, 
that  life  was  placing  between  them  unbridgeable  distances 
of  prosperity.  Maschuta's  dress  was  somewhat  at  fault 

118 


ORLOV 

for  this.  She  did  not  affect  the  fashions.  She  wore  her 
own  hair  in  its  natural  color.  Her  costume  was  still  so 
much  that  of  her  race  that  she  was  a  marked  figure  upon 
the  streets  of  Petersburg.  This  was  to  her  advantage 
had  an  artist  been  the  judge.  She  was  something  good  to 
look  upon.  The  severe  training  in  the  ballet  had  disci- 
plined her  native  suppleness  and  made  her  the  perfection 
of  grace.  Her  dark  beauty  showed  in  brilliant  contrast 
to  the  powdered,  pale  women  of  the  court. 

"  Come  over  here  and  see  these  pearls !  "  began  Greg- 
ory Orlov,  in  that  caressing  voice  which  was  always  his 
whether  he  were  making  love  to  a  pretty  woman  or  buying 
a  horse. 

"  No;  I  do  not  wish  to.  I  am  not  interested  in  pearls 
to-day." 

'  You  are  not?  I  supposed  that  pretty  women  always 
were." 

"  You  have  supposed  lots  of  things  about  women  that 
were  wrong,  Gregory." 

"  Now  what  in  the  devil  is  the  matter,  Maschuta?  " 

"  I  should  think  it  was  my  place  to  ask  that  question, 
Gregory  Orlov,  instead  of  you." 

"  Well,  then,  ask  it  if  you  wish,  dear,"  he  replied,  in 
the  same  tender  voice  which  it  took  so  much  to  change. 

"  Well,  then  I  ask  it.  What  is  the  matter?  "  taking  a 
chair  in  a  corner  of  the  room  and  folding  her  arms  and 
looking  at  him  sidewise  with  eyes  that  were  limpidly 
green. 

"  Matter  with  what?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  have  forgotten." 

"  If  there  is  anything  wrong,  I  have  forgotten  —  or 
else  I  never  knew." 

"  Of  course  you  have  forgotten,  Gregory!  You  always 
forget  everything  in  life  which  you  do  not  wish  to  recall. 

119 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

Or,  if  you  do  not  forget  it,  you  smile  it  out  of  sight  in  that 
triumphant  way  of  yours  and  talk  of  something  else." 

"  Honestly,  Maschuta,  I  haven't  the  least  idea  what 
you  are  talking  about!  I  saw  you  day  before  yesterday 
and  everything  was  as  usual.  What  has  happened?  If 
anything  has  in  the  meantime,  I  am  sure  I  haven't  an  idea 
what  it  is." 

His  handsome  face  beneath  its  crown  of  curls  looked 
sweetly  puzzled. 

"  It  did  not  happen  day  before  yesterday,  Gregory. 
You  know  very  well  that  it  did  not.  It  has  been  hap- 
pening for  five  years  —  ever  since  I  came  to  Peters- 
burg." 

"  Now,  Maschuta,  you  are  not  going  over  that  old 
affair  again  to-day,  are  you?  "  moving  toward  her  with  a 
gesture  of  caress. 

"  I  did  not  come  here  to-day,  Gregory,  to  be  petted  into 
forgetfulness.  If  you  love  me  as  you  say  you  do,  why  do 
you  not  keep  your  promise  and  marry  me?  " 

"  Think  of  the  condition  of  things  now,  Maschuta,  the 
excitement,  the  uncertainty  and  the  expected  change  in  the 
government." 

"  A  year  ago,  before  you  had  this  present  position,  it 
was  lack  of  money.  Now  it  is  something  else.  It  will 
probably  always  be  something  else." 

"  If  you  have  my  love  and  my  devotion  what  more  can 
you  ask?  What  more  can  you  wish  for?  " 

"  A  position  beside  you  in  the  world.  I  am  tired  of 
being  a  dancer,  a  mountebank.  I  want  something  that 
will  last.  When  my  beauty  and  my  youth  are  gone,  where 
shall  I  be?  I  want  a  position  beside  you  in  the  world." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  then  he  thought  of  the  great 
ladies  with  whom  he  was  upon  intimate  terms.  Position 
was  just  the  thing  that  he  had  learned  to  understand  and 

120 


ORLOV 

value.    And  that  position  which  she  coveted  was  placing 
daily  a  wider  abyss  between  himself  and  a  dancer. 

"  If  I  should  marry  now,  it  would  be  fatal  for  my 
advancement  and  my  brothers.  My  career  would  be  at 
an  end.  We  have  no  fortune.  Have  I  not  done  a  great 
deal  for  you  as  it  is?  I  have  paid  for  your  education. 
You  are  the  first  dancer  of  Petersburg.  You  owe  that  to 
me!  That  is  something.  You  are  no  longer  obscure.  If 
you  really  love  me,  if  you  believe  in  me,  why  can  you  not 
give  yourself  to  me  without  a  ceremony  that  would  wreck 
my  future  and  that  of  my  brothers  ?  You  ought  to  have 
some  care  for  my  future  after  all  that  I  have  done  for  you. 
Of  course  —  in  a  year,  even  —  I  may  be  able  to  marry 
you.  You  can  have  a  home.  I  will  pay  for  it.  Surely 
you  can  trust  me  to  care  for  you." 

"  Ah,  yes !  —  and  trust  you  to  forget  me,  too,  just  as 
you  have  done  with  the  others  —  if  you  once  got  things 
your  way !  "  she  added,  50/0  voce. 

"  Come,  Maschuta,  that  is  not  the  way  to  talk !  You 
know  that  you  are  the  only  woman  I  have  loved.  There 
are  plenty  of  women  in  Petersburg  who  would  be  proud 
of  that !  Whatever  I  have  done  my  heart  has  been  yours. 
In  all  these  years  it  has  never  faltered  in  its  devotion  to 
you.  Is  not  that  something  worth  while?  There  is  no 
other  woman  who  can  boast  of  the  love  of  Orlov." 

"  Then  you  refuse  ?  Is  that  what  I  am  to  understand?  " 

"  No;  I  do  not  refuse.  I  merely  defer  —  and  only  for 
the  present.  I  do  not  do  that  because  I  wish  to,  but 
because  I  am  compelled  to.  Just  as  soon  as  I  have  a  firmer 
hold  upon  my  future  I  will  do  as  you  wish  —  and  as  I 
wish,  too.  It  is  just  as  great  a  grief  for  me  as  it  is  for  you. 
And  it  seems  to  me,  Maschuta,  that  the  nature  that  is 
moved  always  by  ambition  and  never  by  love,  or  any 
unselfish  instinct,  can  be  found  fault  with,  too." 

121 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

Green  sparks  darted  from  Maschuta's  eyes. 

''  That  is  just  like  you !  You  criticize  me  for  the 
instincts  of  self-preservation.  While  you  sacrifice  me 
daily  to  all  your  caprices  and  those  of  your  family." 

Maschuta's  eyes  narrowed  to  a  green  and  baleful  line 
of  light.  Before  Gregory  Orlov  could  find  time  to  reply, 
the  Grand  Duke's  pockmarked  negro  dwarf,  Narcissus, 
followed  by  his  dog,  Mopsinka,  appeared  upon  the 
threshold  with  the  lack  of  ceremony  permitted  to  fools 
and  jesters. 

"  Hello,  Narcis!  What  did  you  come  to  wheedle  me 
out  of  to-day?  "  exclaimed  Orlov  in  a  voice  that  welcomed 
the  interruption.  Narcissus,  grinning  like  a  hideous 
pumpkin  lantern,  seated  himself  upon  a  little  gilt  chair 
beside  the  inlaid  table  whereon  the  pearls  were  piled 
before  replying. 

"  Nothing,  sir.  Nothing  at  all !  Unless  you  really 
wish  to  give  me  something." 

"Well,  then,  what  did  you  come  for?" 

"  I  bring  a  message  to  you.  Her  Highness,  the  Grand 
Duchess,  is  moving  back  to  Petersburg  the  night  after 
tomorrow  night  for  the  winter.  She  wishes  you  to  come 
down  to  Oranienbaum  late  and  drive  back  with  her  by 
the  river*road." 

"  Tell  her  Highness  that  I  obey  with  pleasure." 

The  black,  shapeless  head  of  Narcissus  rolled  around 
upon  his  neck  in  stupid  acquiescence.  But  there  was  a 
malicious  glint  in  his  eyes  the  while.  In  his  heart,  which 
one  would  hesitate  to  think  was  as  unlovely  as  his  body, 
he  hated  everyone  except  the  Grand  Duke,  his  master. 
For  him  he  had  a  dog's  devotion.  For  Maschuta  he 
had  a  feeling  that  was  a  little  warmer  than  toleration, 
principally  because  he  reckoned  her  in  the  same  class  as 
himself  and  not  at  all  his  superior.  She  received  ap- 

122 


ORLOV 

plause  in  the  Imperial  Ballet  for  her  dancing;  he  re- 
ceived applause  in  the  imperial  palace  for  his  antics. 
Were  they  not,  therefore,  in  the  same  class? 

Still,  he  sat  there  watching  for  an  opening  to  make 
some  undesirable  remark.  When  he  could  stand  the 
silence  no  longer,  the  vicious  little  dwarf  piped  up  in  his 
shrill  and  nasal  treble,  "  Here's  a  new  puzzle  or  mebbe 
it's  a  new  conundrum !  " 

The  remark  did  not  meet  with  encouragement.  Orlov 
had  had  a  few  memorable  encounters  before  with  the  ugly 
tempered  little  creature.  He  did  not  care  to  renew 
or  enlarge  them.  But  Narcissus  was  not  to  be  discour- 
aged so  easily. 

"  Perhaps  you  could  guess  it  better  than  anyone  else, 
Gregory  Orlov!  I  expect  there  are  people  who  think 
you  can." 

"Well,  out  with  it  then,  Narcis!" 

"  Where  do  you  suppose  the  Grand  Duke  is  going  to 
go  to  spend  the  winter?  "  looking  maliciously  at  Orlov. 

Maschuta's  eyes  opened,  sparkling  like  those  of  a  wary 
animal.  . 

"  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know,  Narcis." 

"  They  say  you  do,  Gregory  Orlov." 

"  Come,  come,  Narcis !  Don't  be  a  real  foal  just  be- 
cause that  happens  to  be  your  profession." 

"  I  can  guess,  Narcis !  Try  me !  "  interrupted  Mas- 
chuta. 

"  Go  ahead." 

"  It  is  a  country  to  which  a  short  broad  road  leads 
—  but  from  which  there  is  not  any  road  to  lead  back  — " 

The  face  of  Narcissus  changed  with  anger. 

"  Lots  of  people  travel  that  road  —  and  some  of  them 
unexpectedly,  Mademoiselle !  " 

"  You  do  not  understand  me,  Narcissus.  Tell  your 

123 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

master   that   Maschuta    says    for   him   to   be   careful." 

The  dwarf's  expression  changed  to  one  of  quick  cun- 
ning, followed  by  a  flash  of  animal-like  gratitude. 

14  This  is  one  of  the  times,  Narcis,"  said  Orlov,  sternly, 
"  when,  if  you  do  not  disappear  quickly,  you  will  get 
something  near  where  your  pockets  are  situated  that  is 
a  good  deal  heavier  than  gold." 

Narcissus  slid  down  clumsily  from  the  gilt  chair,  his 
huge  head  almost  overbalancing  him  and  shuffled  away, 
a  leering,  cruel  smile  twisting  his  hideous  face,  while 
Mopsinka  trotted  gently  after. 

"  You  should  know  better  than  to  interfere  in  a  con- 
versation of  that  kind,  Maschuta.  If  you  had  lived  in 
court  circles  as  long  as  I  have,  you  would  have  learned 
to  control  your  tongue  or  lose  your  head." 

"Are  words  worse  than  deeds,  Gregory  Orlov?  "  she 
flung  back,  in  a  voice  that  was  like  the  sobering  thrust 
of  a  dagger. 

"  They  are  the  wicked  seed  from  which  unaccountable 
deeds  grow,  Maschuta,  when  they  are  thrown  about  as 
you  throw  them.  You  know  our  Russian  proverb,  '  It 
is  foolish  to  set  the  bear  upon  the  shepherd  or  the  swine 
upon  the  gardener.'  ' 

"  I  can  recall  another  Russian  proverb  to  you,  too, 
Gregory  Orlov,  and  an  excellent  one  for  you  to  remem- 
ber, *  A  woman  is  not  a  harp  to  be  played  upon  and 
then  hung  upon  a  wall  to  rust.' ' 

"  There  is  no  use  in  quarreling,  Maschuta.  You  may 
as  well  give  it  up.  I  can  do  what  I  can  and  I  cannot  do 
anything  else,"  his  face  growing  sullen  and  determined. 

The  autumn  afternoon  was  paling  as  it  sloped  toward 
the  early  dusk.  The  harshly  gilt  furniture  in  the  too 
ornate  room  was  glinting  softer,  and  the  pearls  upon  the 
table  had  lost  their  gay  sea-luster  and  were  just  little  dull 

124 


ORLOV 

drops  of  shimmerless  snow.  In  this  drooping  light  the 
eyes  of  Maschuta,  startlingly  pale  by  contrast  with  her 
dark,  gipsy  face,  were  like  angry  water  under  the  rest- 
less changes  of  a  sky  at  night,  greenly  malevolent  and 
somber. 

"  Well,  it  is  all  right,  I  suppose.  Everything  is,  if  you 
happen  to  be  able  to  see  around  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 

"  I  mean  that  the  Grand  Duchess  will  do  to  you  just 
exactly  what  you  are  doing  to  me.  She  will  use  you 
for  her  purposes,  fool  you,  and  then  throw  you  over  — " 

"  You  mean  — " 

"  That  when  you  kill  the  Grand  Duke  — " 

c<  Maschuta!  "  thundered  the  horrified  voice  of  Orlov. 

"  I  mean  just  what  I  began  and  I  am  going  to  finish 
it.  You  will  kill  him." 

"  Maschuta,  by  the  Holy  Mother  of  God  of  Kasan,  if 
you  say  that  again,  I  will  knout  you  —  as  much  as  I  love 
you  — "  he  added,  his  voice  shaking  with  passion. 

"  No,  you  will  not,  Gregory  Orlov.  And  I  shall  say 
what  I  wish  —  you  think  you  will  marry  the  Grand 
Duchess,  that  sometime  you  will  be  Emperor  of  Rus- 
sia — " 

"  You  are  jealous.  A  jealous  woman  has  not  a  grain 
of  sense." 

"  No;  I  am  not  jealous.  You  do  not  love  the  Grand 
Duchess.  I  know  that.  So  how  could  I  be  jealous?" 

"Love  her?  Of  course  I  do  not!  I  never  dreamed 
of  loving  her.  She  is  a  part  of  prosperity  —  my  future. 
That  is  all  she  is  to  me.  That  is  all  she  has  ever  been. 
I  hate  bookish  women!  I  love  only  women  like  you. 
And  there  is  no  other  you." 

"  She  will  not  marry  you.  She  will  use  you  —  your 
popularity,  your  influence  in  the  army,  to  help  herself 

125 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

to  the  throne.  And  then  she  will  toss  you  over  for  a  man 
who  does  love  her.  Believe  me,  Gregory  Orlov,  she  is 
not  spending  all  her  time  in  hunting  ducks  or  in  dream- 
ing over  books." 

"  Of  whom  are  you  talking?  " 

"  If  you  were  not  such  a  conceited  fool,  you  would  not 
have  to  ask  —  Nicholas  Murievich,  of  course  1  " 

44  Nonsense !     He  is  only  a  musician." 

"  All  right!  Call  it  nonsense  if  you  wish.  Biron  was 
only  a  stable  boy.  It  is  no  affair  of  mine.  You  are  the 
handsomest  man  in  Russia, —  but  you  will  never  wear 
its  crown.  You  may  have  everything  else,  but  that  you 
will  never  have.  It  will  always  elude  you,  and  for  rea- 
sons that  you  will  find  as  unreasonable  as  I  find  yours." 

44  What  do  you  know  about  Nicholas  Murievich?  He 
has  played  for  her  once  or  twice  and  you  have  jumped 
at  conclusions,  wildly,  I  suppose,  as  usual." 

"  There  is  no  one  who  knows  the  Grand  Duchess  less 
than  you  do,  Gregory  Orlov." 

Surprise  for  an  instant  made  almost  brilliant  the  sensu- 
ous face,  until  it  passed  into  a  look  of  sudden  fear. 

44  How  can  you  tell?" 

"  No  one  can  judge  a  woman  but  a  woman." 

He  faltered  in  his  pacing  up  and  down  the  room. 
What  if  this  were  true?  There  is  always  a  chance  for 
error. 

"  There  are  corners  of  their  souls  that  only  a  woman's 
eye  can  scan." 

What  if  this  were  true  and  the  sun  of  fortune  were 
rising  upon  a  new  favorite !  But  he  replied  as  boldly 
as  ever : 

"  That  is  one  of  your  notions,  Maschuta.  If  you  were 
a  gipsy  fortune  teller,  such  foolish  sayings  would  be  in 
place  —  when  you  talked  to  a  pack  of  old  women  — " 

126 


ORLOV 

"  The  Grand  Duchess  is  not  like  other  women,  Greg- 
ory Orlov.  There  is  something  about  her  that  is  out  of 
the  ordinary.  I  felt  it  that  night  at  the  Dresden 
Woman's.  I  have  felt  it  at  other  times,  too.  I  have 
seen  her  soul.  I  know.  We  gipsies  have  an  instinct  that 
other  people  do  not  have.  Besides,  she  is  cleverer  than 
you  are,  Gregory  Orlov.  And  she  knows  enough  to 
conceal  her  cleverness.  It  is  a  woman  to  be  reckoned 
with  who  knows  enough  to  do  that!  You  and  I  cannot 
tell  what  she  has  learned  out  of  those  books  that  we  know 
nothing  about.  I  cannot  read  at  all.  And  you  might 
as  well  not  know  how  for  all  the  good  it  does  you.  She 
does  not  value  you  for  your  brains.  She  does  not  love 
you  for  your  beauty.  You  are  useful  to  her  because 
you  are  of  pure  Russian  blood,  and  because  you  are  the 
darling  of  the  army,  and  the  army  she  must  have." 

"  Enough,  Maschuta.     Words !     Just  words  — " 

"  Time  will  prove  or  disprove  it,  Gregory  Orlov.  I 
can  wait.  There  is  a  road  made  for  everyone  to  travel." 

Silence  fell  between  them  with  the  falling  of  her 
prophetic  voice.  Silence  fell  upon  the  world  outside,  too, 
with  the  falling  of  the  autumn  dusk.  Gregory  Orlov 
paced  the  floor  abstractedly,  a  new  and  unsuspected  fear 
fermenting  within  his  brain,  while  Maschuta  sat  catlike  in 
her  corner  with  baleful,  concentrated  eyes  and  watched 
him.  At  length  he  paused  before  her  and  looked  sternly 
down: 

"  Just  what  is  it  you  know,  Maschuta,  what  fact?  Tell 
me!" 

"  If  I  did,  you  would  say — '  Words.     Just  words!  ' 

"  Tell  me.     I  will  judge  for  myself." 

"  The  girls  of  the  Imperial  Ballet  School  danced  for 
her  and  Nicholas  Murievich  the  other  night  at  Oranien- 
baum  —  in  the  Porcelain  Salon.  She  was  celebrating  his 

127 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

return  from  France  and  Prussia.     They  were  alone  to- 
gether there  a  good  part  of  the  night — " 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  I  was  there,  too,  outside  —  listening.  In  addition 
the  girls  of  the  ballet  told  me." 

'What  did  you  hear?" 

"  Not  everything,  of  course.  But  enough  to  tell  me 
that  she  loves  him.  They  are  planning  for  a  future  to- 
gether." 

As  Maschuta  repeated  the  last  words  slowly,  she  saw 
the  face  of  Orlov  grow  white.  But  for  her  there  was 
little  triumph  in  this.  The  revenge  reacted  upon  her- 
self. She  realized  upon  the  instant  that  the  man  beside 
her  would  sacrifice  everything  —  even  the  woman  he 
loved  —  for  this  newborn  dream  of  a  throne.  And  the 
face  that  looked  up  at  him  was  as  white  as  his  own.  At 
that  moment  it  was  as  if  Death,  a  white  figure  made  of 
the  rising  mist  outside,  floated  between  them  sweetly 
and  coldly  wearing  the  face  of  the  goddess  of  Love. 
Into  Maschuta's  eyes  there  leaped  that  look  of  fated 
intelligence  that  comes  when  the  heart  is  pierced.  She 
recovered  poise  quickly.  Determination  hardened  her 
face. 

"  She,  too,  is  planning  for  the  Grand  Duke's  death." 

These  limpidly  spoken  syllables  with  their  scornfully 
allusive  accent  upon  the  two  first  words  were  a  challenge. 

'*  They  planned  it  that  night.  I  heard  them  I  Count 
Bestushev  has  planned  it  too  —  and  — " 

"  And  you  sent  word  to  the  Grand  Duke  from  my 
rooms  by  that  vicious  dwarf,  Narcissus!  You  warned 
him.  Only  a  mad  woman  would  do  a  thing  like  that! 
What  do  you  suppose  that  may  do  to  me  ?  That  tongue 
of  yours  will  be  the  death  of  us !  "  commencing  again  his 
worried  pacing  of  the  floor. 

128 


ORLOV 

"  I  did  not  send  word  to  the  Grand  Duke  to  get  even 
with  you.  There  is  no  need  of  doing  it.  A  cleverer 
woman  than  I  will  see  to  that." 

He  paused  and  faced  her. 

"  You  will  kill  the  Grand  Duke." 

"  Maschuta,  I  have  warned  you." 

"  She  will  lure  you  on  to  do  it  with  promises  which  she 
has  no  intention  of  keeping.  You  will  commit  a  crime 
and  Nicholas  Murievich  will  gain  a  crown." 

"  Maschuta !  There  are  spies  everywhere.  The 
walls  of  our  houses  have  ears.  The  Empress  still  lives, 
you  must  remember,  and  you  and  I  might  be  sent  to 
Siberia  within  the  hour  —  or,  which  is  worse,  thrown 
into  a  dungeon." 

"  You  will  kill  the  Grand  Duke  — " 

"  By  the  body  of  Holy  Isaac  I  will  knout  you  if  you 
persist." 

"  And  then  you  will  keep  putting  me  off  with  this  ex- 
cuse and  that  excuse.  If  you  should  marry  the  Grand 
Duchess,  you  would  send  me  away  to  France  or  Italy  to 
live,  with  a  few  thousand  rubles,  as  the  acknowledged 
prima  ballerina  of  their  Imperial  Russian  Majesties. 
You  know  that  you  are  planning  to  kill  him,  and  for  that 
very  purpose.  You  cannot  lie  to  me  — " 

"  Maschuta!  "  thundered  a  voice  that  was  not  recog- 
nizable in  its  terrified  cruelty,  as  he  snatched  a  jewelled 
knout  from  the  wall. 

"  Strike  me  if  you  dare  !  If  you  do,  I  will  kill  you !  " 
—  leaping  like  a  cat  to  the  center  of  the  room  and  defy- 
ing him  with  astonishing  audacity. 

"  Orlovf  "  with  the  word  that  vibrated  sharply  across 
the  tawdry  room,  the  form  of  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin 
towered  in  the  doorway,  in  the  dim  light  appearing  gro- 
tesquely exaggerated  in  height  and  thinness. 

129 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

"  Orlov,  hang  up  that  knout." 

Surprise  held  the  arm  suspended.  Surprise,  likewise, 
and  anger  held  the  tongue  bound.  At  length,  finding 
relief  for  arrested  motion  in  words, 

"  Am  I  not  master  in  my  own  house?  " 
'Yes!     And  I  am  master  in  Russia." 

Eyes  looked  into  eyes.  .The  one  who  commanded  was 
so  frail  and  so  old  that  the  lightest  blow  could  crush 
him.  But  there  was  something  within  him  that  was 
greater  than  physical  strength.  He  possessed  a  power 
that  muscle  might  not  resist.  Not  many  had  withstood 
that  glance  of  command.  And  Gregory  Orlov  had  rea- 
sons for  obeying. 

"  Maschuta  here,  of  the  Imperial  Ballet,  is  the  prop- 
erty of  the  crown.  Over  her  I  throw  its  protection," 
making  a  gesture  with  the  witchlike  arms.  In  the  silence 
that  followed,  so  taut  were  nerves  strained,  one  could 
hear  the  falling  of  the  mist  outside.  Then,  as  usually 
happens  in  the  first  moment  of  relaxation,  each  material 
object  became  more  harshly  visible:  the  clear  green  eyes 
of  Maschuta  like  hard  translucent  gems;  the  cold  white 
scattered  pearls,  the  pallid  Sevres  plaques  that  rimmed 
the  table;  the  ghostly  old  man  with  the  sunken  eyes  of 
fire;  and  the  sullen,  wet  autumn  night  that  was  shutting 
down  with  cold,  floating  mists  that  dazzled  with  their 
mystery,  as  if  the  Polar  waters  were  closing  in  upon  them. 
Each  felt  in  his  heart  a  premonitory  shiver  of  days  that 
were  soon  to  be. 

"  Come,  come  Orlov !  "  in  a  changed  voice,  as  he  en- 
tered the  room.  "  Hang  up  that  knout.  And  you, 
Maschuta,  put  away  that  little  piece  of  steel  you  are  con- 
cealing." 

In  the  sullen  face  of  Maschuta  there  was  no  gleam  of 
gratitude.  Gratitude  was  not  a  mental  equipment  which 

130 


ORLOV 

she  considered  worth  while.  Besides,  this  old  man  had 
the  secret  powers  of  mind  which  she  herself  possessed. 
In  addition,  she  recognized  in  him  the  effective  spring 
that  moved  everything,  and  in  ways  which  were  fatal 
to  her. 

The  afternoon  had  been  disastrous.  She  felt  the  ful- 
fillment of  her  desires  slipping  away  from  her.  And 
she  felt  dimly  that  these  two  men  represented  something 
great  and  epochmaking  that  was  approaching,  something 
which  she  had  not  suspected  and  which  she  hated  and 
feared  accordingly.  The  animal  instinct  to  wound  in 
return  rose  up  within  her.  With  a  bravery  that  was  re- 
flected in  the  heart  of  each  in  unspoken  admiration,  she 
made  erect  the  childish  figure  and  looked  them  unflinch- 
ingly in  the  eye,  just  as  she  did  her  audience  when  she 
responded  to  applause  in  the  Imperial  Theater. 

"  Have  a  good  time,  you  two,  who  rule  Russia  now ! 
Have  a  good  time !  Your  day  is  short  —  like  mine. 
Fate  is  doing  to  you  the  same  thing  she  is  doing  to  me. 
But  you  who  are  highest  have  farthest  to  fall." 

The  face  of  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin  took  on  the  ex- 
pression that  had  given  him  the  nickname  of  the  "  Rus- 
sian Fox."  He  knew  that  she  had  been  the  paid  spy 
of  the  Grand  Duke.  He  knew  that  she  could  divulge  im- 
portant secrets,  and  that  now  she  was  in  the  mood  to  do 
it,  if  the  mood  were  not  changed.  And  his  opinion  of 
her  beauty  was  a  good  deal  higher  than  his  opinion  of  her 
intelligence.  Lest  he  jostle  her  and  discontinue  the 
course  of  her  thinking,  he  annihilated  for  the  moment  the 
pulse  of  thought  within  himself. 

"  When  the  great  secret  is  out,  what  will  you  do  —  you 
two?  The  great  secret!  The  great  secret!" 

Emotion  lifted  her  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice.  She 
could  not  resist  the  call.  She  would  take  the  plunge  and 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

tell.  The  iron  will  of  the  Great  Chancellor  was  beat- 
ing her  steadily  toward  it.  He  stood  with  high  folded 
arms  and  thin  concentrated  lips  looking  at  her.  The 
silence  was  to  her  brain  what  suffocation  is  to  the  lungs. 
It  gave  her  the  impulse  to  shriek,  to  utter  wild  words. 
His  silent  figure  seemed  to  grow  taller,  more  command- 
ing, an  awful  figure  of  vengeance  and  doom.  And  his 
will  was  beating  her  out  from  under  the  safe  shelter  of 
prudence  and  wisdom,  just  as  the  gamekeeper  beats  the 
pheasants  out  into  the  open  to  be  shot.  She  could  not 
resist  the  force  longer.  It  was  unendurable.  It  was 
as  full  of  suffering  as  physical  pain.  In  the  strained 
silence  the  mist  outside  was  loud  as  rustling  gauzes,  and 
now,  occasionally,  it  showed  a  silver  dagger  of  rain,  the 
threatening  weapon  of  the  storm. 

The  pressure  of  the  moment  was  more  than  she  could 
bear.  The  last  rag  of  resistance  had  been  whipped  away 
like  the  last  tattered  rag  of  a  sail  in  a  storm.  With 
defiance  and  joy  ringing  in  her  voice  she  said: 

"  The  Grand  Duchess  of  Russia  is  the  natural  daughter 
of  Frederick  the  Great!  Petersburg  is  filled  with  his 
spies.  Some  of  them  are  commissioned  to  tell  her. 
When  she  knows  this  —  when  she  knows  this,  and  gives 
him  a  voice  in  affairs,  what  will  become  of  you,  Count 
Bestushev-Rjumin?  Then  who  will  be  supreme?  Then 
who  will  rule  Russia? 

"  And  when  the  Grand  Duke  dies  —  as  you  two  know 
very  well  that  he  will  —  and  soon  —  what  will  become  of 
your  ambitious  dreams,  Gregory  Orlov?  When  the 
Grand  Duke  dies  and  the  Duchess  marries  Nicholas 
Murievich !  " 

The  face  of  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin  did  not  change  a 
muscle.  He  had  found  out  what  he  wished  to  know. 
This,  then,  was  to  be  the  card  played  by  the  wily  Fred- 

132 


ORLOV 

erick  to  stop  the  war  against  Prussia,  save  Berlin  from 
the  plundering  of  a  foreign  army,  and  depose  himself. 
If  this  failed,  what  then?  He  must  find  out.  This, 
evidently,  was  the  secret  of  which  Catherine  Alexevna 
had  hinted.  This  was  the  secret  brought  back  by  the 
soldiers  from  the  banks  of  the  Pregel.  But  Frederick 
of  Prussia  always  kept  a  safe  alternative  on  hand  in  case 
of  a  first  failure.  What  was  that?  He  did  not  need 
to  question.  Maschuta  stood  before  them  foaming  with 
words  of  wrath : 

"  You  think,  both  of  you,  that  the  Grand  Duchess  is 
the  only  person  in  the  world!  Did  it  never  occur  to  you 
that  she  can  die  just  as  well  as  the  Grand  Duke?  Is 
she  not  flesh  like  the  rest  of  us?  Why  have  you 
not  thought  of  this?  The  masked  ball  is  coming, 
Count  Bestushev-Rjumin !  The  masked  ball  is  coming  I 
Strange  things  happen  then.  People  have  disappeared  at 
the  masked  ball  and  never  been  found  again.  Wait  un- 
til the  masked  ball  comes !  " 

Count  Bestushev-Rjumin  had  now  found  out  more  than 
he  wished  to  know,  but  his  face  was  as  impassive  as 
before.  The  astonishing  disclosure  vanished  into  the 
depths  of  that  secretive  intelligence  as  pebbles  vanish 
into  the  sea.  It  left  not  a  ripple  upon  the  surface. 

"And  Nicholas  Murievich? "  he  thought.  "Well, 
well !  Well,  well !  " 

The  impression  made  upon  Gregory  Orlov  was  differ- 
ent. He  had  forgotten  his  anger  of  a  little  while  ago. 
Another  emotion  had  taken  its  place.  He  was  filled  with 
pity  for  this  beautiful  creature  who  was  stung  to  futile 
rage  that  meant  death,  perhaps,  to  herself,  while  its 
foolish  speaking  was  giving  the  means  of  salvation  to 
the  others.  Poor  little  Maschuta !  Grief  was  heavy 
within  him  and  a  feeling  that  she  was  swinging  out  beyond 

133 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

his  power  to  save.  Poor  little  Maschuta!  Why  had 
he  not  given  her  a  present  and  sent  her  home,  instead 
of  quarreling  with  her?  Pity  awoke  to  fresh  life  the 
love  he  had  always  had  for  her.  Again,  she  seemed  to 
him  some  helpless  strayed  creature  of  the  forest  that  had 
wandered  into  the  city  where  it  was  futilely  trying  to 
preserve  its  life  from  carriages  and  crowds.  Poor  little 
Maschuta !  By  force  of  contrast  he  thought  of  Cather- 
ine Alexevna  and  the  self-control  that  the  training  of 
years  had  .given.  For  an  instant  he  felt  a  shiver  of  re- 
pulsion for  that  cold,  selfish  intelligence. 

When  she  had  finished,  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin,  with 
a  gentle  and  forgetful  smile  that  banished  the  words  she 
had  said  as  if  they  were  as  inconsequential  as  current 
society  phrases,  turned  to  her  pleasantly.  His  air  of 
command  had  vanished.  He  was  just  a  frail  old  man  now 
with  a  face  of  gentle,  almost  senile,  kindness.  In  his 
voice,  as  he  spoke  to  her,  there  was  a  note  of  fatherly 
consideration. 

"  You  should  have  been  an  actress,  and  a  great  tragic 
actress,  Maschuta,  instead  of  a  dancer !  " 

Relief  was  evident  upon  her  face,  now  that  she  had 
paused  for  breath  and  realized  with  what  audacity  she 
had  been  addressing  the  Great  Chancellor,  whose  word 
Europe  obeyed,  and  the  most  terrible  man  in  Russia. 
Instantly,  her  mind  went  over  the  stories  she  had  heard 
of  him  and  his  uncanny  powers.  She  drew  a  breath  of 
thankfulness  that  he  did  not  seem  disturbed  at  the  news. 
It  must  be  that  he  knew  it  before,  she  meditated,  or  else 
deemed  it  of  slight  importance.  She  pulled  herself  to- 
gether from  fright  of  realization  of  what  she  had  said, 
while  her  anger  subsided. 

"  You  might  have  been  like  the  actresses  I  heard  in 
England.  The  stage  is  a  great  institution  there." 

134 


ORLOV 

His  manner  was  kind.  It  put  Maschuta's  little  fears 
to  sleep.  The  Calmuck  servant  came  in  bringing  candles. 
By  their  light  the  Great  Chancellor  looked  older,  and 
frail,  and  pitiful,  as  their  uncertain  flames  painted  black 
shadows  beneath  his  eyes,  and  his  purple  veined  hands, 
which  were  spotted  with  age,  began  to  tremble  weakly. 
Maschuta  was  rapidly  reversing  her  judgment  of  him. 
Her  hatred  was  fading  away. 

"  I  do  not  know  but  we  shall  have  to  give  you  some 
dramatic  schooling  abroad  somewhere.  We  cannot  have 
Russian  genius  going  to  waste  like  this." 

Oh !  they  certainly  were  mistaken  who  told  such  stories 
of  him.  Perhaps  the  Grand  Duke,  too,  is  wrong, 
she  thought.  The  Grand  Duke  is  none  too  intelligent. 
Perhaps  he  is  not  the  terrible  man  they  picture 
him. 

Gregory  Orlov  was  of  a  different  opinion.  He  knew 
that  the  "  Russian  Fox  "  was  never  so  dangerous  as  when 
he  was  in  this  gentle  voiced  mood.  It  meant  that  he  had 
found  out  by  accident  something  that  he  was  eager  to 
learn,  something  of  great  importance,  and  that  he  had 
come  to  some  inexorable  decision.  It  meant  that  he 
would  strike  quickly  and  without  warning,  and  that  no 
one  would  know  whence  the  blow  came.  The  mood  was 
the  result  of  self-satisfaction,  and  determination  to  act 
quickly  and  under  cover. 

Poor  little  Maschuta !  How  he  pitied  her !  She  was 
smiling  up  at  him  now  quite  trustfully.  How  could  she 
be  expected  to  understand  the  man  whom  the  diplomats 
of  Europe  could  neither  measure  nor  forestall?  And 
how  eager  he  was  for  them  both  to  forget!  The  news 
was  too  precious  to  be  touched  by  the  tongue  of  conversa- 
tion. Therefore,  he  was  quick  to  change  the  subject  to 
something  personally  interesting  to  her.  Count  Bes- 

135 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

tushev-Rjumin  believed  that  all  women  have  long  hair 
and  short  thoughts. 

"  Now,  my  pretty  little  Gipsy,  if  Gregory  Orlov  should 
have  another  attack  of  ill  temper,  you  will  know  whom 
to  send  for,  will  you  not?  " 

Maschuta  nodded  amicably,  her  face  becoming  merry 
and  natural.  And  what  an  unprecedented  honor,  to  be 
addressed  as  an  equal  by  the  Great  Chancellor!  "  Per- 
haps," she  thought,  "  he  is  going  to  fall  in  love  with  me 
just  like  Gregory  Orlov." 

l<  It  takes  us  to  straighten  Orlov  out,  does  it  not?  " 

"  Sometimes,  Count  Bestushev,  Gregory  acts  just  as 
if  he  thought  the  world  were  coming  to  an  end." 

'  Well,  well,  Little  One,  you  and  I  can  manage  him ! 
You  can  depend  on  me." 

He  looked  at  them  intently  for  a  moment.  His  voice 
changed  and  faltered : 

"  How  old  I  feel  beside  you  two  gay  flowers  of  youth ! 
How  old!  How  old!" 

As  he  said  this  in  a  sad  and  wistful  manner,  he  ap- 
peared to  shrivel  to  such  tenuity  of  body  that  it  seemed  as 
if  he  must  float  about  like  the  shadows  of  the  wavering 
candles.  He  was  like  a  spirit  that  had  lived  forever 
and  could  not  be  released.  The  black,  measureless 
weight  of  uncounted  centuries  hovered  over  him.  His 
hearers  felt  the  sadness  of  death  and  time  upon  them. 
The  present,  with  its  grief  and  intrigue,  was  trivial  in 
comparison  with  the  prodigious  past  that  he  must  know. 

And  this  was  part  of  his  magic,  to  disarm  before  he 
struck.  It  was  safer  for  him.  And  it  was  so  much 
surer.  He  never  played  with  a  possible  margin  for  loss. 
That  margin  had  gone  long  ago  to  swell  the  wealth  of  his 
resourcefulness. 

136 


ORLOV 

"  Good  night,  my  pretty  little  Gipsy.  Good  night, 
Orlov.  I  am  very  tired.  I  must  go." 

"  Good  night,  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin,"  replied 
Gregory  Orlov,  bowing,  obsequiously  polite,  as  the  thin 
old  figure,  that  had  entered  like  a  whirlwind  of  wrath, 
tottered  weakly  through  the  lighted  doorway. 

Maschuta  caught  a  glimpse  in  the  hallway  outside  of 
the  yellow,  ugly  face  of  the  old  man's  Calmuck  servant 
who  was  waiting  to  attend  him  home. 

"  What  would  I  not  give  to  know  what  is  in  his  mind 
now,"  thought  Orlov,  as  he  watched  him  disappear  into 
the  outer  hall.  "  Whatever  it  is,  it  will  not  affect  me 
personally  —  my  life.  That  is  safe  enough.  I  am  use- 
ful to  him.  But  the  others !  The  Grand  Duke,  Nicholas 
Murievich,  Maschuta!  "  He  caught  his  breath  in  fear. 

Clearly  he  saw  her  danger.  Poor  little  Maschuta, 
what  did  she  know  of  this  game  in  which  a  human  life  is 
of  no  more  account  than  the  dust  that  the  wind  blows  1 
Again,  he  saw  her  a  helpless  creature  darting  about  among 
the  crowding  carriages  of  Petersburg,  seeking  a  place  of 
safety. 

"  Maschuta,  you  must  leave  Petersburg  for  a  few 
months  —  and  leave  at  once !  " 

'  You  wish  me  out  of  the  way,  do  you?  " 

"  Listen  to  me,  Little  Sweetheart,  and  put  away  your 
anger.  It  is  for  your  good,  not  for  any  object  of  my  own 
I  wish  you  to  go.  You  must  feign  illness,  get  leave  of 
absence  from  the  Imperial  Theater,  and  go  south  —  for 
your  health  —  perhaps  to  Moscow,  or  Kiev,  whatever 
place  suits  you  best." 

"  And  be  forgotten  —  and  never  come  back  to  Peters- 
burg? " 

'  You  do  not  understand  and  I  cannot  explain  to  you." 

137 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

"  And  then,  in  that  length  of  time,  Count  Bestushev- 
Rjumin  will  forget  about  me  and  the  dramatic  school  to 
which  he  is  going  to  send  me.  You  make  me  lose  every- 
thing that  is  worth  while.  My  interests  are  of  no  conse- 
quence." 

"  Dearest  One,  listen  to  me.  I  am  trying  to  save  your 
life.  I  know  this  world  of  court  and  intrigue  better 
than  you  do.  For  you  to  try  to  tell  me  about  it  would 
be  like  my  telling  you  how  to  dance.  I  love  you, 
Maschuta !  The  things  that  I  have  done  that  have  made 
you  angry  I  have  been  forced  to  do.  You  have  judged 
them  wrongly.  You  must  listen  to  me.  When  you  are 
traveling  in  a  land  you  know  nothing  of,  you  must  let 
them  who  live  there  guide  you.  It  would  be  impossible 
to  know  the  way.  It  is  folly  to  be  wise  unwisely.  Just 
this  time,  do  as  I  wish,  Dear  One ! 

"  I  will  never  ask  you  to  do  anything  that  you  do  not 
wish  to  do  again.  You  must  go !  And  to-night!  There 
is  not  a  minute  to  lose.  I  will  see  her  Majesty  for  you 
myself  in  the  morning." 

"Why  should  I  do  such  a  foolish  thing?  I  will  not! 
If  you  are  tired  of  helping  me,  if  you  are  losing  interest, 
I  will  see  what  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin  will  do.  You 
heard  what  he  said  I  " 

"  You  do  not  understand  Count  Bestushev,  Little  Love 
—  Count  Bestushev  is  —  is  — "  He  did  not  dare  to  say 
it.  Not  even  for  the  woman  he  loved.  He  dared  not 
risk  one  explanatory  word  against  the  Great  Chancellor. 
There  was  only  one  way.  He  had  tried  it  and  failed. 

"  Maschuta,  if  you  will  leave  Petersburg  for  three 
months,  get  leave  of  absence  on  pretext  of  illness,  I  will 
marry  you  at  the  end  of  that  time.  I  will  marry  you. 
I  swear  it  by  all  the  saints  of  Russia !  What  more  could 

138 


ORLOV 

a  man  say  to  a  woman  to  guarantee  his  good  faith  than 
I  am  saying  to  you  ?  " 

"  But  I  will  not  go,  Gregory  Orlov !  I  will  stay  right 
here.  I  will  be  a  great  actress  in  the  English  manner. 
I  will  have  Russia  at  my  feet." 

"  Can  you  not  care  for  anything  but  ambition,  Mas- 
chuta?  Is  there  no  love  in  your  heart?  "  he  said,  in  a 
dull,  saddened  voice,  seeing  afresh  the  emptiness  of  her 
nature,  yet  feeling  for  her  the  same  old  pitying  love. 

"  Come,  dear  Little  Sweetheart,  be  guided  by  me  — 
this  once  —  just  this  once !  "  folding  her  within  his  arms 
and  kissing  the  angry  eyes. 

"  No,  I  will  not,  Gregory  Orlov !  This  once  I  will  do 
just  as  I  please.  And  one  of  the  things  I  please  is  to 
go  back  to  my  apartments  now." 

;<  Wait  a  moment,  Dearest!" 

He  summoned  a  servant. 

"  Have  Mademoiselle  Maschuta  driven  to  her  apart- 
ments by  the  Fontanka." 

"  Do  not  feel  bad,  Gregory!  You  will  be  glad  that 
I  am  not  going  away.  You  know  you  will !  How  could 
you  get  along  without  me  ?  You  could  not !  See,  Greg- 
ory—  To  show  you  I  am  forgiving  you,  I  am  kissing 
you.  Lift  me  up  —  higher  —  there!  Right  on  the  end 
of  your  nose !  Good  night,  Gregory !  Good  night." 


139 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    FATAL   NIGHT  AT  ORANIENBAUM 

There  was  something  besides  the  petted  caprice  of  a 
pretty  woman  in  Maschuta's  resistance  to  the  pleading 
of  Orlov.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  listen  once 
more  at  night  by  the  doors  of  the  Porcelain  Salon  that 
gave  upon  the  Gulf  of  Finland.  She  would  know  from 
the  testimony  of  her  own  ears  and  eyes  just  the  sort  of 
thing  that  Gregory  Orlov  meant  to  Catherine  Alexevna, 
and  just  what  were  the  plans  which  she  believed  that  he 
was  concealing  from  her. 

Oranienbaum  was  wearing  no  longer  the  air  of  sum- 
mer festivity  that  had  distinguished  it  on  the  night  when 
Catherine  Alexevna  had  celebrated  the  return  of  Nicholas 
Murievich  from  the  war  by  the  Pregel.  The  flowers 
were  gone,  and  the  mellow  moon,  and  the  thrill  of  sum- 
mer. Dried  and  shriveled  stalks  hung  dismally  over  the 
marble  urns.  The  gardens  were  dim  and  dismantled. 
Dirty  fishing  boats  did  not  dot  the  deep,  nor  the  gay 
sails  of  merrymakers.  The  earth  was  a  faded  yellow 
that  was  losing  its  gold;  that  tragic  yellow  which  is  the 
color  of  regret.  The  Gulf  was  gray  and  blurred  by 
ripples  that  shivered.  The  sky  was  a  dull  monochrome 
that  bent  over  the  earth,  against  which,  from  time  to  time, 
were  etched  the  thin,  black  lines  of  frightened  birds  has- 
tening to  the  south.  But  underneath  this  dismal  hollow 
there  was  quiet.  The  winds  were  still.  It  was  as  if  the 
cloud-wall  held  at  bay  the  winter,  its  swirling  snows  and 

140 


THE  FATAL  NIGHT 

bitter  nights.  Over  the  fields  and  the  Gulf  and  the 
marshy  road  by  which  the  pale  moss  lay,  over  the  wooden 
Finnish  village,  which  the  founder  had  called  Peters- 
burg, lay  that  unearthly  and  terrifying  silence  which  in 
Russia  precedes  the  first  falling  of  the  snow.  In  the 
soul  of  Catherine  Alexevna,  who  was  standing  by  the 
open  doors  that  looked  upon  the  Gulf,  there  was  the  same 
terrifying  silence,  which  she,  likewise,  knew  to  be  the 
silence  that  precedes  the  storm.  But  she  neither  feared 
it  nor  regretted  its  necessity.  She  felt  as  if  the  same  force 
had  passed  over  the  mind  and  the  heart  of  her  that  had 
passed  over  the  world  of  nature,  killing  the  flowers. 

The  occasional  sensation  of  old,  that  she  was  a  mirror 
that  reflected  life  but  could  not  feel  it,  was  becoming 
permanent.  Life  was  a  pageant  floating  across  the  mir- 
ror surface  of  her  heart.  She  no  longer  felt  the  old 
grief  of  the  impetuous  letters  to  Nicholas  Murievich, 
the  longing  to  put  a  stop  to  the  peculiar  death  that  was 
creeping  upon  her.  Instead,  her  intellect  merely  kept 
record  of  it  coldly. 

The  change  in  the  mind  and  the  nature  of  Catherine 
Alexevna  had  brought  about  a  similar  change  in  her 
body.  It  had  grown  thinner.  It  had  hardened.  It  had 
lost  flexibility.  It  resembled  marble.  As  she  stood  by 
the  doors,  dressed  in  the  traveling  gown  in  which  later 
that  evening  she  was  going  to  drive  back  to  Petersburg 
with  Gregory  Orlov,  a  faint  breeze  like  a  sigh  from  the 
sea  slipped  drily  across  the  faded  flowers  that  swung 
from  the  urns.  With  it  the  thought  slipped  across  her 
mind  that  like  these  flowers  had  become  her  youth. 

Oranienbaum  was  lonely  now,  especially  at  this  hour. 
The  Gulf  was  just  such  a  monotony  as  life  is  without 
love.  In  Petersburg,  at  least  there  would  be  window 
lights.  There  would  be  people.  There  would  be  voices 

141 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

and  laughter.  The  next  night,  too,  was  the  masked  ball, 
she  reflected,  which  meant  the  opening  of  the  court  sea- 
son. It  was  the  first  revelry  of  the  Russian  winter.  At 
this  masked  ball  strange  things  had  happened.  Who 
could  tell  what  to-morrow  night  might  bring  forth? 
Petersburg  was  filled  with  the  spies  of  all  nations.  The 
city  was  in  a  ferment.  Everywhere  was  restlessness,  dis- 
satisfaction. Court  factions  would  be  busy  with  their 
plots.  They  would  not  let  such  an  opportunity  go  un- 
used. Danger  would  be  an  unbidden  guest. 

She  had  received  a  note  that  morning  from  Nicholas 
Murievich  telling  her  that  something  was  on  foot  against 
both  herself  and  him,  but  that  he  could  not  find  out  what. 
She  must  be  on  the  alert.  Perhaps,  the  lives  of  both 
were  the  issue.  She  must  not  falter !  She  must  be  equal 
to  the  occasion.  He  knew,  of  course,  that  she  would  be. 
He  had  no  fear.  The  letter  was  pitiful  in  its  deep  and 
trusting  love,  and  in  the  understanding  that  his  life  de- 
pended upon  her. 

This  letter  was  followed  by  another  from  Count  Bes- 
tushev-Rjumin,  a  letter  of  unexplained  command  to  the 
point  that  she  must  wear  a  plain,  black  domino  to  the 
masked  ball,  and  one  several  sizes  too  large  so  that  it 
would  effectively  conceal  the  figure.  With  this  she  must 
wear  a  black  hood,  likewise  large,  and  a  black  mask. 
And  the  costume  was  to  be  kept  secret  from  everyone, 
not  excepting  Gregory  Orlov  and  her  maid,  Mafra  Sav- 
ischna,  until  she  was  ready  to  dress  for  the  ball.  In 
addition,  there  was  a  postscript  which  said,  "  Do  not  in- 
terfere with  the  command  I  have  given  to  my  Calmuck 
slave  for  to-night." 

The  importance  of  this  letter  she  estimated  from  the 
fact  that  it  was  written  in  his  secret  cipher.  It  con- 
tained no  other  information.  But  she  knew  that  behind 

142 


THE  FATAL  NIGHT 

it  lay  a  plot.  She  knew  that  it  was  the  small  hinge  upon 
which  some  great  door  turned.  With  the  knowledge 
came  no  emotion.  It  was  an  unchangeable  thing,  like  the 
rising  of  the  stars. 

The  gaunt  reeds  by  the  Oranienbaum  canal  shivered. 
She  heard  them  with  a  thrill  of  memory.  There  was 
the  sound  of  dried  grass  trodden  stealthily,  and  the  form 
of  Maschuta  crept  up  over  the  terrace.  Upon  the  in- 
stant Catherine  Alexevna  was  alert  and  watching. 

"  How  is  this,  Maschuta?  I  thought  that  your  posi- 
tion as  spy  for  the  Grand  Duke  lasted  only  for  the 
summer.  Has  he  re-engaged  you?" 

There  was  no  anger  in  the  tone.  It  was  calm  and 
equable  and  scarcely  tinged  with  mockery. 

Maschuta  walked  straight  toward  the  Grand  Duchess, 
just  as  if  she  had  come  to  make  a  call  upon  her.  She 
did  not  take  the  trouble  to  reply  immediately.  Catherine 
Alexevna  admired  her  audacity  and  daring. 

"  Narcissus  told  me  that  you  were  in  Gregory  Orlov's 
rooms,  when  my  message  was  delivered.  Would  you 
like  him  to  be  banished  from  Russia,  the  way  your  last 
act  of  spying  brought  about  the  banishment  of  Count 
Poniatovsky?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  your  Royal  Highness.  That  would  be 
inconvenient  for  me,  because  in  three  months  Gregory 
Orlov  is  going  to  marry  me." 

Maschuta  had  made  up  her  mind  that  her  departure 
from  Petersburg  would  be  wise.  She  almost  wished  she 
had  gone  the  night  before.  There  was  something  in  the 
heavy  air  of  night  that  oppressed  her  like  the  shadow 
of  fear. 

"  Men  of  the  court,  my  Little  Dancer,  may  not  marry 
without  royal  permission." 

"  But  no  one  can  tell,  your  Royal  Highness,  who  will 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

be  the  one  to  give  out  royal  permission  in  three  months 
from  now." 

This  unwise  rejoinder  brought  forth  no  change  of  ex- 
pression upon  the  well  trained  face  of  Catherine  Alexevna. 
But  it  sent  defensive  thoughts  flying  swiftly  across  the 
surface  of  her  brain. 

"  Suppose  I  give  out  royal  permission?  " 

"  All  things  are  possible  I  " 

How  she  hated  this  woman's  assurance  of  power,  her 
possession  of  the  desirable  things  of  life! 

"  I  suppose  I  could  refuse,  my  Little  Dancer  —  if  I 
wished." 

The  words  "  little  dancer  "  emphasized  the  breadth  of 
the  social  chasm  that  lay  between  them. 

"  You  could  refuse,  of  course.  What  use  would  there 
be  in  holding  a  man's  body,  when  you  could  not  hold 
his  heart?" 

"Could  I  not?" 

"  You  are  of  the  great  world.  I  am  humble  and  of  the 
people.  But  I  can  boast  the  love  of  the  handsomest  man 
in  Russia." 

Maschuta  had  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  tell 
Gregory  Orlov  the  instant  she  reached  Petersburg  that 
she  saw  his  advice  was  good  and  she  was  ready  to  set  out 
for  Moscow.  But,  in  the  meantime,  she  would  revenge 
herself  upon  this  woman  whom  she  had  hated  long  be- 
fore she  saw  her,  in  those  obscure  days  of  vagabondage 
in  Little  Russia. 

"  He  will  marry  me  for  love.  He  is  glad  to  give  in- 
stead of  receive."  Catherine  Alexevna  smiled  decep- 
tively. 

Now  was  the  opportunity  Maschuta  had  longed  for. 
Without  waiting  for  an  invitation  she  followed  the  Grand 
Duchess  into  the  Porcelain  Salon.  How  she  longed 

144 


THE  FATAL  NIGHT 

to  wound  this  woman  whom  she  envied,  who  had  the 
things  she  herself  desired!  How  she  hated  her  assump- 
tion of  superiority!  Again  the  torrent  of  words  was 
carrying  her  away: 

"  You  may  smile  upon  me  scornfully,  if  you  wish.  But 
I  do  not  feel  your  scorn.  I  would  rather  be  Maschuta, 
the  dancer,  than  the  woman,  even  if  she  wore  a  crown 
whom  the  world  calls  — " 

"  Maschuta  —  enough!  It  will  be  well  for  you  to  re- 
member to  whom  you  are  speaking." 

'  There  are  other  brands  of  nobility,  your  Royal  High- 
ness, besides  the  one  you  wear.  The  heart,  nobility  of 
living,  are  titles  which  the  world  recognizes  as  well  as 
yours." 

"  You  foolish  little  dancer,  what  right  have  you  in 
your  ignorance  to  judge  a  woman  like  me?  Do  you  not 
know  that  it  is  only  by  my  forbearance  that  you  are 
speaking?  The  more  insignificant  a  woman  is  the  more 
highly  she  values  herself!  You  foolish  child!  And  I 
am  foolish,  too,  to  talk  to  you  who  have  not  the  ability 
to  understand.  I  have  rights  which  you  do  not  have. 
I  have  the  rights  that  ability  gives  and  far  reaching 
plans  for  my  country.  Peter  the  Regenerator  gave  Rus- 
sia a  body.  I  will  give  it  a  soul. 

"  But  you  do  not  understand !  What  folly  it  is  for 
me  to  talk  to  you !  Grief  and  blood  went  to  the  making 
of  physical  Russia.  But  only  joy  can  go  to  its  refining, 
its  soul-regeneration.  That  is  what  I  am  for.  It  is  joy 
that  must  be  the  soul  of  a  race  —  and  the  art  of  a  race. 
You  foolish  little  dancer,  there  are  other  views  of  life 
than  yours  of  the  bargaining  shopkeeper!  What  right 
have  you  to  judge  a  woman  like  me?  " 

"  None,  perhaps !  But  the  world  has  a  right.  And 
it  will  use  it.  Perhaps,  your  Royal  Highness  will  respect 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

the  world's  judgment  if  you  do  not  respect  mine.  It  is 
not  I  who  am  speaking  now,  it  is  the  world.  It  says  that 
you  are  very  little  a  woman, —  that  you  are  becoming  a 
monster." 

The  face  of  Catherine  Alexevna  changed  visibly.  At 
last,  Maschuta  had  struck  home. 

Was  the  world  seeing  the  death  that  was  going  on 
within  her?  Could  one  not  even  hide  one's  soul? 
Hatred  hardened  her  face. 

"  It  says  —  the  world  —  that  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin 
is  making  a  monster  out  of  you;  that  he  is  pouring  his 
dying  soul  into  you.  In  this  way  he  will  live  on  while 
you  live.  In  this  way  he  hopes  to  reign  through  you.  In 
this  way —  The  world  says  many  things,  your  Royal 
Highness !  "  This,  then,  was  the  construction  put  upon 
it.  This  was  something  to  hear.  "  His  black  magic 
will  be  yours.  But  no  man  will  love  you  for  yourself 
alone.  Not  even  you  can  have  everything !  "  added  that 
triumphant  voice  that  was  so  glad  to  wound. 

Catherine  Alexevna  glanced  instinctively  toward  the 
black  and  gold  Chinese  Salon.  She  recalled  with  a  thrill 
of  semi-physical  intelligence  how  she  had  seen  him,  the 
night  but  one  before,  come  out  of  the  bodies  of  those 
Chinese  monsters  in  that  pallid  dawn  at  Oranienbaum. 
Perhaps,  he  was  really  something  terrible  and  incompre- 
hensible that  had  lived  forever;  some  monster  that  had 
come  wandering  down  across  the  fabulous  plains  of  the 
East  to  this  chaotic  land  of  contrasts,  Russia,  where  any- 
thing could  be.  "  A  monster!  "  repeated  the  cruel  voice, 
triumphantly,  while  her  eyes  blazed  with  the  Orient's  an- 
cient hatred  of  the  West.  Catherine  Alexevna  was  not  a 
Slav.  This  Maschuta  could  not  forgive.  What  right 
had  this  foreign  woman  in  her  Holy  Russia?  The  na- 
tures of  both  women  were  primitive  and  elemental.  But 

146 


THE  FATAL  NIGHT 

to  Catherine  Alexevna  there  had  been  added  the  disci- 
plined brain  of  Europe  that  could  counsel,  control,  and 
that  could  wait  until  the  moment  came.  This  put  an  un- 
equal weight  into  the  scales.  "  A  monster !  "  This  had 
struck  home.  This  had  brought  back  sensation.  She 
was  finding  that  there  was  another  emotion  that  checked 
effectively  the  emotionless  death.  It  was  rage.  She  felt 
it  rising  within  her.  She  felt  it  expanding  the  powers 
of  her  body.  She  felt  it  flooding  the  inlets  and  recesses 
of  her  nature.  She  saw  its  dizzy  swinging  eddies  that 
rose  and  rose.  She  saw  its  increasing  depth. 

Just  at  this  moment  Narcissus  came  ambling  awkwardly 
across  the  Porcelain  Salon,  resplendent  in  red  and  yellow 
satin,  which  he  had  put  on  to  celebrate  his  return  to 
Petersburg  that  night,  and  the  court.  When  he  saw 
the  expression  upon  the  face  of  the  Grand  Duchess,  he 
dropped  limply  down  upon  a  sofa  by  the  doors  without 
any  jests  or  capers.  There  was  one  person  of  whom 
Narcissus  stood  in  respectful  fear,  and  upon  whom  he 
never  exercised  his  evil  wit,  and  that  was  the  Grand 
Duchess. 

Maschuta  saw  her  advantage  and  pushed  it.  Now, 
she  had  the  upper  hand.  She  did  not  interpret  rightly 
the  manner  of  the  Grand  Duchess.  She  was  used  to 
the  anger  of  another  class  of  women.  She  did  not  know 
how  dangerous  were  these  moments  of  silence.  She 
thought  they  were  caused  by  fear.  Accordingly,  she  con- 
tinued as  wildly  as  before, 

"  Yes,  and  there  are  other  things  that  you  do  not  know, 
too!" 

Through  the  rage  that  was  filling  her  brain  there 
darted  the  intelligence  that  now  was  coming  the  disclos- 
ure that  Nicholas  Murievich  had  hinted  of,  the  secret  of 
the  Pregel. 

147 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

"  Perhaps  you  will  not  be  so  proud  when  you  learn  that 
you  are  a  bastard." 

Not  a  muscle  of  the  face  trembled  despite  the  rage 
that  was  pounding  for  release  within  her  brain. 

Emboldened  by  relief  in  her  victory,  Maschuta  con- 
tinued :  "  Yes,  a  bastard !  You  are  the  natural  daugh- 
ter of  Frederick  the  Great.  Now,  how  do  you  feel? 
Now  are  you  any  better  than  I  ?  " 

She  made  no  answer.  Still  she  stood  there  motionless. 
This  was  it  —  the  secret!  If  it  were  true,  the  disgrace 
was  covered  up  in  glory.  Faith  in  herself  strengthened. 
Courage  invigorated  her.  Never  before  had  she  so  real- 
ized her  own  possibilities.  She  was  of  the  race  of  that 
iron-hearted  warrior. 

But  Maschuta  had  no  part  in  this  quick  meditation. 
Anger  had  caused  her  to  lose  temporarily  the  divining 
power  of  her  race.  She  still  misunderstood  the  silence 
and  took  it  for  triumph  for  herself. 

'  They  call  you  a  monster!  They  call  you  a  bastard! 
They  will  call  you  — " 

"  Maschuta!  "  the  voice  had  deepened  and  roughened. 
Rage  was  diffused  over  it.  Such  a  voice  from  that  marble 
woman ! 

Answering  anger  sprang  up  within  Maschuta.  She 
would  crush  that  angry  voice  into  silence.  She  had  done 
it  once.  She  would  do  it  again.  She  would  subdue  her 
while  she  was  about  it. 

*  Yes,  the  people  say  these  things  —  all  of  them.  And 
it  will  not  be  long  before  they  will  call  you  something 
else  —  something  worse !  " 

The  fateful  silence  that  followed  was  not  broken  by  the 
tinkling  of  the  fool's  bells.  Narcissus  was  rigid  and 
motionless.  Even  his  great  pumpkin  head  was  twisted 
into  an  attitude  of  attention. 

148 


THE  FATAL  NIGHT 

Two  candles  had  been  placed  in  the  far  corners  of  the 
Porcelain  Salon.  Their  flames  stretched  out  hungrily 
toward  the  two  women  like  pointing  fingers. 

"  They  will  call  you  a  murderess !  They  will  call  you  a 
murderess  —  because  you  will  kill  the  Grand  Duke  1  " 

Rage  was  pounding  in  her  ears  now  as  loudly  as  a  sea 
against  granite  breakers.  Louder  and  louder  grew  its 
roar,  and  more  sense  destroying.  At  the  same  time, 
there  was  a  part  of  the  brain  that  was  active  and  clear 
and  that  thought  with  lucidity.  Especially,  did  it  recall 
facts  of  the  past  that  bore  upon  the  present.  This 
heightened  power  of  memory  she  was  unable  to  shut  off. 
She  did  not  control  it. 

She  heard  Esterhazy  remarking,  sneeringly,  "  She  will 
be  the  Tzaritza  of  an  empire  of  blood  and  horror." 
Some  one  else  —  was  it  Marquis  de  1'Hopital?  Any- 
way, it  was  some  foreigner  whom  she  hated,  and  whose 
impressions  of  the  country  were  sharp  and  clear,  had 
declared  that  the  air  of  Petersburg  was  electric  with 
crime.  And  she  remembered  now  just  what  Count 
Bestushev  had  whispered  by  these  very  sea-doors.  Her 
brain  worked  like  a  steel  spring  that  was  polished  and 
bright.  Everything  that  could  in  anyway  relate  to  the 
present  it  recalled  distinctly.  Anger  had  given  impetus 
to  brain  and  nerve  centers.  But  not  much  longer  could 
she  restrain  that  ocean  that  was  pounding  within  her. 
Then,  there  rose  up  within  Catherine  Alexevna  the  desire 
to  destroy  which  she  had  first  felt  on  the  night  of  the 
ball  when  they  had  driven  away  from  the  flowers  and  the 
music  to  hear  the  wolves  howl  across  the  snow.  The 
rage  ocean  could  no  longer  be  controlled.  It  was  chok- 
ing, blinding  her.  Then,  it  found  an  exit  and  its  dis- 
cordant roar  subsided.  At  this  moment  she  felt  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Ghostly  Chancellor  just  as  she  had  felt  it 

149 


THE  WHIRLWIND 
i 

when  she  had  bidden  farewell  to  Nicholas  Murievich 
one  morning  in  the  dawn.  Again,  it  seemed  to  her  that 
he  came  from  the  grotesque  bodies  of  those  Chinese  mon- 
sters and  inhabited  the  adjoining  black  and  gold  salon. 
She  glanced  toward  it  apprehensively.  There  in  the 
dim  light  she  saw  the  yellow,  leering  face  of  the  Great 
Chancellor's  Calmuck  slave.  She  recalled  at  once  the 
postscript  to  his  cipher  letter,  "  Do  not  hinder  the  com- 
mand I  have  given  to  my  Calmuck  slave  for  to-night!  " 

Now  she  understood.  He  advanced  softly  into  the 
room  on  tip-toe,  and  seized  Maschuta  by  the  throat.  For 
a  few  seconds  the  two  figures  swayed  silently  back  and 
forth  by  the  lighted  doorway,  their  bodies  casting  dis- 
torted shadows  upon  the  floor.  Maschuta  freed  herself 
for  the  space  of  a  second. 

"  Narcissus,"  she  gasped,  "  run  and  tell  your  master 
to  come  here  —  quickly.  I  tried  to  save  his  life.  Let 
him  save  mine !  Tell  him  — " 

The  hands  were  upon  her  throat  again.  When 
Narcissus  arose  to  go,  two  eyes  of  blazing  anger  burned 
a  command  into  his  brain.  He  dropped  down  limp  and 
helpless,  with  foolish,  staring  eyes  and  loose  hanging 
lips.  His  own  petty  malice  and  mischief  were  dwarfed 
into  insignificance. 

"Narcissus  —  for  the  love  of  God!" 

The  only  answer  was  the  shivering  of  his  frightened 
fool's  bells.  Again,  the  two  struggling  figures  were  one 
and  their  shadows  slipped  along  the  floor.  As  Cather- 
ine Alexevna  watched  them,  mindful  of  the  Chancellor's 
command  not  to  interfere,  scarlet  banners  floated  before 
her  eyes.  Faster  and  faster  they  floated,  as  she  saw  the 
body  of  Maschuta  grow  weak  and  falter.  They  fell  to 
the  floor.  Neither  moved  for  a  little  time.  Then  she 
saw  that  life  was  gone. 

150 


THE  FATAL  NIGHT 

She  was  aroused  from  her  fascinated  contemplation  of 
the  dead  face  upon  the  floor  by  little  elfin  bells  that 
tingled.  Narcissus  was  sitting  in  his  chair  and  shaking 
as  if  he  had  a  fever,  his  shapeless  head  rolling  about 
upon  his  shoulders.  She  looked  up.  The  candles  now 
stood  stiff  and  tall,  their  sensitive  flames  white  and  straight 
above  them.  They  held  the  attitude  of  aspiring  prayer. 

The  Calmuck  picked  up  the  little  childish  body  of 
Maschuta  as  lightly  as  if  it  had  been  a  doll,  ran  down 
the  terrace  with  it  and  dropped  it  into  the  Gulf.  Then, 
he  disappeared  as  silently  as  he  had  come.  She  knew 
that  her  own  life  had  been  saved  by  the  watchful  care 
of  the  Great  Chancellor.  Yet  she  felt  fresh  horror  for 
the  crime.  And  in  a  way  she  had  been  made  a  party  to 
it.  It  was  almost  as  if  she  had  committed  it.  She  had 
looked  on  without  an  effort  to  hinder.  Narcissus  with 
his  shivering  fool's  bells  still  sat  upon  the  sofa.  She 
drew  up  a  little  gilt  chair  and  sat  down  opposite  him 
and  looked  out  over  the  Gulf,  over  which  the  blackness 
of  night  now  lay  heavily. 

The  candles  had  burned  considerably  lower  and  were 
slipping  more  fretfully  along  the  floor  their  ribboned 
light,  when  Gregory  Orlov's  handsome  figure  came  sway- 
ing across  the  Chinese  Salon. 

"  Good  evening,  your  Royal  Highness." 

"  Good  evening,  Gregory  Orlov." 

"Hello,  Narcis!     How  are  you?" 

For  answer  Narcissus's  teeth  began  to  chatter  like 
castanets  and  his  bells  to  jangle  madly. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Narcis?  Have  you 
lost  your  wits?  I  never  knew  that  vicious  tongue  of 
yours  to  miss  an  opportunity  of  exercise  before !  " 

" Narcissus"  said  the  Grand  Duchess,  in  a  voice  that 
did  not  brook  disobedience,  "  stop  shaking!  " 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

Instantly,  he  was  rigid,  his  silver  fool's  bells  silent, 
looking  up  at  her  with  terrified,  unintelligent  eyes. 

"  Get  up !  Go  bring  me  two  lighted  torches.  Do  it 
at  once !  " 

He  slid  awkwardly  from  his  seat,  looking  up  at  her 
out  of  the  corners  of  big  eyes,  that  were  as  white  as 
moons,  and  then  shuffled  away. 

"  I  suppose  that  I  may  as  well  tell  you  now  as  at  any 
time,  Gregory  Orlov." 

;'What?" 

'Wait,  wait!  Do  not  be  in  a  hurry  to  know.  You 
will  know  soon  enough.  Wait  until  Narcissus  gets 
back." 

"  It  seemed  a  long  time  before  Narcissus,  looking  both 
pitiful  and  grotesque,  appeared  at  the  sea-doors,  holding 
painfully  with  his  small  hands  two  torches  of  pine. 

"  Come,  Gregory." 

"  Light  us  down  the  terrace,  Narcissus." 

The  shapeless  little  figure  in  its  gala  court  suit  stag- 
gered on  ahead  upholding  one  of  the  torches,  while  Orlov 
carried  the  other. 

Gregory  walked  along  wondering.  When  they 
reached  the  Gulf,  the  Grand  Duchess  commanded  Narcis- 
sus to  take  hold  of  the  end  of  the  torch  and  hold  it  out 
over  the  water.  Gregory  Orlov  took  the  heavy  wood 
from  the  ineffective,  trembling  hands  and  its  red  light 
shot  out  over  the  Gulf. 

"  Gregory,  see  — "  » 

He  looked  down.  There,  nearly  at  his  feet,  where 
the  water  was  not  deep  and  the  light  of  his  torch  fell 
without  obstruction,  was  the  white,  childish  face  of 
Maschuta. 

"  Who  did  this,  Catherine  Alexevna,  and  why?  " 

"  No  matter  who  did  it !  It  is  too  late  now  to  inquire. 

152 


THE  FATAL  NIGHT 

If  it  had  not  been  done,  you  and  I  would  both  be  to- 
morrow night  just  where  she  is  now.  If  she  had  gone 
back  to  Petersburg,  the  storm  would  have  broken  over 
our  heads  within  twenty-four  hours." 

For  some  time  in  silence  Gregory  Orlov  stood  looking 
pityingly  down  at  the  face  of  the  only  woman  he  had  ever 
loved,  floating  under  the  restless  torches.  Then,  his 
own  torch  began  to  burn  low  and  turn  black,  and  the 
dark  face  of  Maschuta  faded  away  out  of  time  and 
vision,  as  if  it  had  never  been. 

'  You  drive  back  by  yourself  to  Petersburg,  Gregory 
Orlov,  and  I  will  follow.  To-morrow  night  come  to 
my  apartments  in  the  Winter  Palace  before  it  is  time  to 
dress  for  the  ball." 

He  made  silent  obeisance  and  walked  away. 

At  top  speed  he  drove  back  to  Petersburg,  saying  to 
himself:  "  This  is  the  first  sacrifice  to  the  Slavic  Venus! 
But  it  shall  not  be  the  last !  " 

He  drove  straight  to  the  palace  of  Count  Bestushev- 
Rjumin,  the  Great  Chancellor.  Their  interview  lasted 
until  the  dawn. 

Later,  through  that  damp  autumn  night,  whose  silence 
was  interrupted  by  an  occasional  wind  that  had  the  sup- 
pressed wail  of  winter  in  its  voice,  Catherine  Alexevna 
drove  back  to  the  Finnish  village,  accompanied  only  by 
Narcissus.  She  felt  strangely  cold  that  night  and  she 
wrapped  herself  up  in  a  sable  pelisse.  Narcissus,  poor 
little  fool,  was  cold  too,  but  he  shivered  on  beside  her, 
unnoticed,  in  his  red  and  yellow  satin  with  its  tingling 
bells. 


153 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    NIGHT  OF  THE   BALL 

The  hour  was  half  past  six  of  the  afternoon  of  the 
following  day.  The  apartments  of  the  Grand  Duchess 
in  the  unfinished  Winter  Palace  were  open  for  occupancy. 
They  consisted  of  a  spacious  sleeping  room,  on  the  right 
of  which  an  archway  led  to  a  boudoir,  and,  beyond,  a 
dressing  room.  In  the  upper  left  hand  corner  of  the 
sitting  room  there  was  a  bed,  a  square  of  gilded  wood 
whose  corners  were  upheld  by  statues  of  marble.  The 
bed's  canopy  was  of  white  and  trailing  ostrich  plumes 
held  together  in  the  center  by  an  apple  of  gold  on  top 
of  which  was  the  Greek  cross  made  of  diamonds.  The 
coverlet  was  of  white  velvet  upon  which  was  embroid- 
ered in  raised  silk  the  double-headed  eagle  of  Russia. 
Steps  of  mahogany  were  in  front  of  the  bed.  On  either 
end  of  these  steps  were  massive  vases  of  gold  repousse 
filled  with  pink  roses. 

A  mahogany  table  with  gilt  mounts  designed  by  Caf- 
fieri  served  for  a  washstand.  Upon  it  rested  a  gold 
washbasin  studded  with  cabuchon  gems,  the  trophy  of  a 
Turkish  war.  The  pitcher  of  cracked,  discolored  stone- 
ware was  on  the  floor.  Court  wigs  were  thrown  care- 
lessly on  one  end  of  the  table.  In  the  back  of  the  room 
and  in  the  center,  equidistant  from  two  small,  deep  set, 
gilt  doors,  stood  a  combination  desk  and  table  littered 
with  books  and  papers. 

This  desk  might  have  belonged  to  a  scholar  instead  of 
a  woman  of  fashion.  Among  the  books  were  "  Letters 

154 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  BALL 

of  Madame  de  Sevigne,"  "  Memoirs  of  Brantome," 
Montesquieu,  Voltaire,  Beaumarchais,  and  a  worn  vol- 
ume of  Tacitus.  Two  small,  stiff  chairs,  representatives 
of  different  French  periods, —  over  one  of  which  the 
sable  pelisse  of  the  night  before  hung  like  a  shadow  — 
and  a  small  but  elaborate  chaise  longue,  carved  perhaps 
by  that  master  craftsman,  Jean  Goujon,  completed  the 
furnishing. 

The  floor  was  of  unfinished  wood.  The  walls  were 
undecorated  and  bare.  Half  the  ceiling  was  painted 
elaborately  in  the  prevailing  ostentatious  Louis  XV  style, 
with  pink  cupids,  flowers,  and  the  blue  ribands  of  Ver- 
sailles. The  other  half  was  covered  with  a  dirty  canvas. 
One  of  the  doors  in  the  rear  of  the  sleeping  room  was 
hidden  beneath  a  Persian  rug  of  a  marvelous  pink,  that 
set  one  to  dreaming  of  the  roses  of  Shiraz.  The  rug 
was  frayed  and  hung  by  one  corner.  There  was  evident 
a  luxury  that  was  well  nigh  savage,  with  dirt  and  need  of 
the  commonest  articles  of  living. 

If  we  might  be  permitted  a  glance  outside  at  this  hour 
of  the  day,  which  was  that  of  morning,  to  these  northern 
children  of  the  night,  and  which  was  likewise  that  of  the 
fashionable  drive,  we  should  see  a  muddy  road  parallel- 
ing the  palace,  along  which  were  passing  gilded  coaches 
decorated  in  butterflies,  bowknots,  and  amoretti.  There 
were  gorgeously  painted  carriages  designed  by  foreign 
artists,  curtained  with  oriental  textiles,  windows  of  Vene- 
tian glass,  hung  with  ivory  laces  from  Spain  and  Flanders. 
Some  of  these  coaches  contained  card  tables,  toilet  tables, 
and  stoves  made  of  Saxon  porcelain  that  resembled  price- 
less vases  from  old  China.  The  famous  coach  of  Leo 
Narishkin,  who  was  a  leader  of  fashion,  was  made  of 
plate  glass  mirrors.  The  outriders  were  in  blue  and 
silver.  Subanski,  the  Adonis  of  the  Hussars,  rode  in  an 

155 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

open  berlin.  There  were  coaches  colored  like  the  rain- 
bow; glass  and  silver  coaches,  with  monograms  and  coats 
of  arms  upon  the  doors.  Occasionally,  too,  there  was 
an  English  calechc,  a  Viennese  phaeton,  or  a  wooden  ox- 
cart from  Finland,  with  two  creaking  wheels,  drawn  by 
a  small  pony.  In  winter,  upon  the  Neva,  there  were 
sledges  drawn  by  slim-legged  reindeer.  Variety  was  not 
lacking  in  Petersburg. 

On  either  side  of  this  drive  there  was  a  free  space 
where  men  and  women  got  out  of  their  carriages  and 
moved  about  for  awhile.  Walking  was  not  fashionable 
in  Petersburg.  Indeed,  walking  elsewhere  than  here  was 
only  for  the  moujik.  The  women  were  conspicuous  by 
wasp  waists,  flowered  paniers,  and  trains  upheld  by 
negroes  and  hideous  drawfs.  The  dwarf  was  as  greatly 
in  evidence  in  Russia  as  at  the  more  ancient  court  of 
Spain. 

Despite  the  cold,  wet  autumn  the  necks  of  these  great 
ladies'  dresses  were  cut  to  a  low,  square,  dccolletage. 
They  wore  cameos  about  their  throats  and  wrists,  and 
carried  medallion  snuff-boxes.  Over  the  shoulder  hung 
a  curl.  The  hair  was  powdered  and  piled  high  to  rep- 
resent castles,  ships  in  sail  roped  with  gems,  Chinese 
pagodas,  or  baskets  filled  with  flowers.  Sometimes,  a 
coiffeur  exceeded  a  foot  and  a  half  in  height.  Their 
rouged  and  powdered  cheeks  were  decorated  with  as- 
sasins.  Some  were  accompanied  by  pages  in  dazzling 
livery  whose  duty  it  was  to  carry  the  long  pearl-handled 
parasols  which  were  useless.  To  contrast  with  the  trains, 
the  skirts  in  front  were  cut  short  in  order  to  show  the 
latest  Parisian  fad  in  footwear  —  shoes  a  la  belle  poule. 
These  excesses  in  fashion  were  suited  to  this  land  of  excess 
in  living  where  they  were  displayed.  Indeed,  these  ex- 
travagances were  specially  designed  in  Paris  for  the  Court 

156 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  BALL 

of  Russia  and  the  prices  attached  to  them  were  fabulous. 
The  men  wore  velvet  coats,  satin  waistcoats,  knee  breaches 
of  soft  leather  or  silk,  and  sometimes  bottes  fortes. 
They  carried  muffs  of  priceless  fur  to  protect  their  deli- 
cate hands. 

In  the  distance  there  were  rows  of  dilapidated  huts 
and  the  cold  waters  of  the  Neva,  which,  at  this  period, 
was  not  protected  by  granite  quais.  Along  the  streets 
were  heaps  of  evil  smelling  refuse  where  mangy  dogs 
played  and  fought.  From  time  to  time  the  procession  of 
carriages  was  interrupted  by  a  slow  moving  ox-cart  from 
the  Ukraine  driven  by  a  peasant  in  pointed  sheep  wool 
cap,  or  an  ancient  family  carryall  from  the  southern  prov- 
inces, a  padded  coachman  on  the  seat. 

Petersburg,  at  this  time,  was  not  a  large  place.  It  had 
been  built  hastily  by  a  race  who  had  to  learn  to  like  a 
fixed  place  of  residence.  The  primeval  swamp  had  been 
made  over  in  a  trice  into  a  semi-civilized  place  of  living 
by  the  brutal  will  of  the  Great  Peter,  with  no  considera- 
tion for  comfort  or  for  human  life,  because  this  was  the 
point  where  he  could  come  nearest  to  Europe.  Nature 
did  not  intend  that  a  city  should  be  built  here,  on  this 
cold,  unfriendly,  mist-covered  plain  where  the  pale  cran- 
berries grew  and  the  faded  mosses.  It  was  meant  merely 
to  prelude  the  desolation  of  an  Arctic  water.  And  at 
this  time  there  were  only  about  one  hundred  thousand  in- 
habitants. The  houses  were  of  wood.  The  streets, 
which  were  either  dusty  or  muddy,  had  neither  pavements 
nor  sidewalks.  They  were  infested  by  hungry  dogs  that 
sometimes  attacked  people  on  foot.  It  bore  almost  no 
resemblance,  architecturally,  to  a  Russian  city.  It  re- 
called a  Finnish  village.  At  night  parts  of  the  city  were 
still  barricaded  like  the  turbulent  ducal  towns  of  old 
Tuscany,  and  it  was  unsafe  to  walk  alone,  unarmed. 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

Only  the  lowest  classes  were  seen  on  foot  upon  the 
street,  except  at  this  hour  of  fashionable  promenade  along 
the  Nevsky  Prospect.  And  at  this  hour  it  was  not  un- 
common to  see  a  man  lying  upon  the  walk  covered  with 
blood  and  dying. 

It  was  now  that  the  royal  gardens  were  made  open  to 
the  people.  But  her  Majesty  added  to  the  generous 
proclamation,  "  to  well  dressed  people  only."  Never 
was  such  store  set  by  good  clothes  as  by  Elizabeth  Pe- 
trovna  and  her  court.  It  was  her  intention  to  civilize, 
externally  at  least,  her  Asian  province.  Petersburg,  not- 
withstanding, was  a  sad  and  dismal  city.  Who  could 
calculate  the  amount  of  blood  and  suffering  that  had  gone 
to  its  making!  Poor  and  humble  workmen  had  been 
taken  from  all  the  provinces  of  the  nation  for  this  pur- 
pose—  Tartars,  Cossacks,  Finns.  They  had  not  had 
sufficient  food  or  clothes.  They  had  had  few  tools  with 
which  to  work.  They  took  off  their  coats  and  shirts  and 
used  them  to  carry  the  dirt  which  filled  up  this  Finnish 
marsh.  They  were  not  sheltered  from  the  cold  of  win- 
ter, or  the  rain,  or  the  heat  of  summer.  They  were  not 
cared  for  in  any  way.  The  first  year  one  hundred  thou- 
sand men  died,  as  many  as  the  inhabitants  of  Petersburg 
at  this  time.  The  suffering  of  those  who  survived  was 
so  great  that  it  was  reported  that  a  statue  of  the  Virgin 
wept.  Such  was  this  newborn  capital  of  an  empire  in 
the  middle  of  the  Great  Century. 

Mafra  Savischna,  in  regulation  peasant  costume,  had 
just  entered  the  bed  chamber  of  the  Grand  Duchess, 
carrying  a  black  domino,  a  petticoat,  a  mask  and  a  hood. 
She  threw  the  domino  and  the  petticoat  over  the  foot  of 
the  great  bed,  and  hung  the  mask  strings  and  the  hood 
over  an  arm  of  one  of  the  marble  statues.  She  was  not 

158 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  BALL 

in  an  amiable  mood.  She  had  no  liking  for  her  sphinx- 
like  mistress  whom  she  could  not  cajole. 

"  I  wonder  why  the  Grand  Duke  is  so  crazy  to  know 
what  she  is  going  to  wear  to-night?  Well,  it  is  not  this 
black  cotton  domino  —  I  know.  She's  having  me  bring 
this  in  for  a  blind.  I  know  her!  When  she  says  she 
is  going  south,  I  am  always  pretty  certain  that  she  is  go- 
ing north.  So  she  isn't  quite  so  clever  as  she  thinks  she 
is." 

She  sat  down  and  began  to  dress  one  of  the  wigs. 

"  There's  something  up  to-night  —  something  out  of 
the  ordinary.  The  palm  of  my  left  hand  has  itched  all 
day.  I  never  knew  that  sign  to  fail!  Everyone  in  the 
palace  is  excited.  I  never  saw  such  goings  on.  I  won- 
der what  it  is.  It  would  not  do  the  Grand  Duke  any 
good  to  know  what  she  is  going  to  wear.  I  should 
say  not!  Nothing  can  do  him  any  good.  Poor 
fool! 

"  I  wonder  why  all  the  Grand  Duke's  friends  are  so 
crazy  to  know  what  she  is  going  to  wear  to-night,  too ! 
I  just  sent  word  to  him  that  she  had  ordered  a  black 
domino  brought  to  her  room.  One  of  his  Prussian 
friends  gave  me  a  ruble  for  the  information.  It  must  be 
important.  I  wonder  if  she  is  really  going  to  disguise 
herself  this  way  to-night?  Nobody  can  tell  why  she  does 
anything." 

The  Grand  Duchess,  wearing  a  white  silk  petticoat  of 
the  latest  Parisian  cut  and  stays,  entered  the  room.  Her 
arms  and  shoulders  were  bare.  Her  unbound  hair  fell 
almost  to  her  knees.  In  this  deshabille  there  was  evi- 
dent that  distinguishing  characteristic  of  women  of  birth 
of  the  Eighteenth  Century  —  extreme  slenderness  com- 
bined with  strength.  The  expression  of  her  face  was 

159 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

cold  and  controlled.  One  noticed  that  the  lips  looked 
thinner  and  less  red.  She  was  followed  by  Dsiemba,  her 
Calmuck  slave,  who  carried  a  pink  saut  de  lit,  two  books, 
and  a  bronze  mirror.  She  lay  down  upon  the  day-bed  in 
order  that  Mafra  Savischna  might  brush  her  hair.  Upon 
the  face  of  her  maid  there  was  an  expression  of  malice 
mixed  with  fear. 

"  Throw  the  saut  de  lit  over  the  end  there,"  she  com- 
manded, indicating  the  foot  of  the  day-bed. 

"  Now  give  me  my  mirror  and  Montesquieu.  No, — 
the  other  book !  The  one  in  brown  and  gold !  Are  you 
color  blind,  Dsiemba?  Put  the  other  on  the  floor  where 
I  can  reach  it.  Now  take  off  my  slippers." 

He  took  off  the  gilt  slippers.  She  wore  stockings  of 
coarse,  openwork  design,  upon  the  insteps  of  which  were 
embroidered  the  arms  of  Russia.  The  Grand  Duchess 
at  this  time  was  famous  throughout  Europe  for  the  beauty 
of  her  feet. 

"  Now,  go.  Mafra  Savischna,  are  my  wigs  in  or- 
der? " 

"  They  are,  Little  Mother." 

"  Very  well.  Braid  my  hair  in  two  braids  and  fasten 
it  smoothly  about  my  head." 

She  alternately  read,  examined  herself  critically  in  the 
mirror,  and  looked  straight  ahead  gloomily  and  medita- 
tively without  seeming  to  see  anything. 

'  The  Little  Mother's  hair  is  very  beautiful,"  mur- 
mured Mafra  Savischna,  eager  for  conversation. 

"  How  it  would  hold  up  a  crown,  now  would  it  not, 
Little  Mother?" 

"  It  takes  something  more  than  hair  to  hold  up  a 
crown,  Mafra  Savischna !  " 

"  Lift  up  your  mirror,  Little  Mother,  a  little,  just  a 
little  —  and  see!  Now  am  I  not  right?  " 

1 60 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  BALL 

"Why  do  you  chatter  so,  Mafra  Savischna?  Be 
still." 

After  a  pause  which  weighed  heavily  upon  her,  Mafra 
Savischna  returned  bravely  to  her  questioning. 

''  What  will  your  friend,  the  Princess  Dashkov,  wear 
to-night  —  to  the  masked  ball,  Little  Mother?" 

The  Grand  Duchess  shook  her  head  and  refused  to 
answer. 

"You  do  not  know?     Why  is  that,  Little  Mother?" 

Again  the  Grand  Duchess  shook  her  head. 

"  And  you  —  what  are  you  going  to  wear?  " 

The  question  was  evidently  lost  upon  ears  that  did  not 
hear. 

"  And  her  sister,  Elizabeth  Woronzov,  what  will  she 
wear?" 

A  somewhat  prolonged  pause  followed  this,  while  she 
fastened  up  the  long  braids  of  hair. 

"  She  has  fine  hair,  too." 

"  Do  you  think  that  it  would  hold  up  a  crown  as  well 
as  mine,  Mafra  Savischna?" 

"What  —  Little  Mother?"  stammered  Mafra  Sav- 
ischna, greatly  confused. 

"  I  say,  do  you  think  that  it  would  hold  up  a  crown 
as  well  as  mine?  " 

"  Of  course  not !  Of  course  not,  Little  Mother ! 
Who  could  think  such  a  thing?  Not  I !  The  saints  for- 
bid!" 

"  Why  can  you  not  keep  still  a  minute,  Mafra  Sav- 
ischna? " 

She  turned  to  her  reading  and  a  pause  followed,  while 
the  maid  put  the  last  touches  to  her  hair. 

"  Now,  look,  Little  Mother!  Does  it  please  you?  I 
am  your  devoted  slave,  Little  Mother.  I  wish  always 
to  please  you  1  " 

161 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

The  Grand  Duchess  lifted  the  mirror  and  looked  at  it 
indifferently. 

"  Yes,  yes.     That  will  do.     That  will  do !  " 

As  she  put  down  the  bronze  mirror,  Gregory  Orlov 
came  in  hurriedly  and  excitedly,  flinging  aside  the  Persian 
rug  across  the  door.  Upon  his  face  there  was  no  trace  of 
the  grief  and  anger  of  the  night  before.  He  had  bor- 
rowed the  courtier's  weapon  —  a  smiling  face.  But  in 
his  heart  he  was  none  the  less  determined  upon  revenge. 
And  that  revenge  should  help  his  future.  If  he  had  a 
right  to  risk  his  own  interests,  he  had  no  right  to  risk 
his  brothers'. 

Loneliness  of  a  kind  he  had  not  felt  before  had  come 
upon  him,  and  he  felt  dimly  that  it  would  not  lift  at 
once.  The  sensuous  face  looked  harder  and  more  self- 
controlled.  The  tenderness  of  youth  was  less  evident. 
He  was  beginning  to  feel  that  death  of  the  heart  which 
the  passion  for  power  brings. 

But  he  was  looking  particularly  handsome  even  for 
him.  To-night  he  resembled  more  a  Greek  of  the  Classic 
Age  than  an  Eighteenth  Century  Russian.  He  was  wear- 
ing the  conventional  court  dress.  An  Asiatic  touch,  how- 
ever, was  given  to  his  appearance  by  the  great  blue  gems 
dangling  from  his  ears.  From  a  buttonhole  hung  an 
ivory  miniature  of  the  Grand  Duchess,  concealed  from 
observation  by  a  blue  and  heart  shaped  diamond  which 
was  one  of  the  fabulous  treasures  of  Russia. 

"  Catherine  Alexevna,  are  you  dreaming  over  a  book 
—  and  now!  "  he  exclaimed  as  he  entered,  quite  in  his 
old  voice,  just  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  He  made 
a  mock  gesture  of  salute  to  her  monogrammed  ankles. 

"  This  is  what  the  world  will  be  doing  soon." 

The  Grand  Duchess  yawned  indifferently  and  closed  the 
book,  keeping  one  finger  in  it. 

162 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  BALL 

"  Do  you  not  think  that  the  head  is  a  better  place  for 
a  crown  than  the  feet,  Gregory  Orlov?  " 

"  Why  will  you  insist  upon  talking  nonsense?  " 

The  Grand  Duchess  yawned  again. 

"  What  difference  does  it  make  what  one  talks?  All 
things  are  nonsense  —  more  or  less." 

"  But  you  insist  upon  not  understanding  —  not  car- 
ing." 

"  I  do  not.  You  said  in  compliment  what  the  world 
says:  that  my  feet,  because  they  are  beautiful,  become  a 
crown  better  than  my  head." 

"  I  said  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"How  impatient  you  are,  Gregory  Orlov!  What 
folly  it  is  to  dispute  1  " 

"  Is  it  not  greater  folly  to  be  dreaming  over  a  book 
as  I  find  you  and  forget  your  responsibilities,  especially 
now  when  — " 

The  Grand  Duchess  interrupted  him,  impatiently. 

"  Do  not  be  cross,  Gregory.  It  is  not  worth  while, 
when  I  see  you  so  seldom." 

u  It  is  your  own  fault  that  you  do  not  see  me.  You 
are  busy.  You  do  not  wish  to  be  disturbed." 

She  took  her  fingers  reluctantly  out  of  the  book  and 
closed  it. 

'*  What  are  you  reading,  Catherine  Alexevna?  " 

"  Montesquieu.     '  Esprit  des  Lois.'  " 

"  A  wise  thing  to  be  doing  —  at  this  crisis." 

"  I  am  taking  your  advice." 

"  Yes,  yes  —  I  see.  This  is  the  way  you  always  take 
it." 

;t  When  you  saluted  that  crown  there  —  upon  my  ankle 
—  did  you  not  say  that  all  the  world  would  be  doing  it 
soon?  That  is  why  I  read  Montesquieu.  He  is  a  writer 
for  sovereigns." 

163 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

"What  is  this,  Catherine  Alexevna?"  picking  up  a 
book  from  the  floor.  "  Beaumarchais?  " 

"Yes;  a  charming  book.  I  should  like  to  commend 
that  book  to  Alexander.  He  would  appreciate  it." 

"  Let  him !  I  do  not  envy  him.  I  would  rather  be 
a  live  Orlov  now  than  a  dead  emperor.  However,  my 
dear  Duchess,  if  you  persist  in  devoting  too  much  time 
to  him  you  may  have  an  opportunity  to  die  and  commend 
that  book  to  Alexander  somewhat  sooner  than  you  may 
wish.  Unexpected  death  may  befall  the  great  as  well  as 
the  obscure,"  he  said,  with  an  intonation  meant  only  for 
her  ears,  which  aroused  unpleasant  memories.  "  Books! 
Stuff  and  nonsense !  Proper  things  to  talk  of  now,  are 
they  not?  Have  you  no  sense  of  the  importance  of  the 
present?  Do  you  not  know  —  or  are  you  just  acting 
for  your  pleasure  and  my  discomfort  —  do  you  not  know 
the  fate  of — " 

The  Grand  Duchess  interrupted  him  hurriedly,  looking 
narrowly  toward  Mafra  Savischna. 

"  What  do  I  care  for  the  fate  of  anything?  " 

"  I  have  noticed  that  your  Highness  had  an  unique 
forgetfulness  in  that  respect." 

She  took  no  notice  of  the  insinuation. 

"  I,  Gregory  Orlov,  would  rather  be  a  pretty  woman 
than  anything  in  the  world.  I  would  rather  have  one 
moment  of  love  than  a  century  of  immortality." 

"  These  fine  ideas  of  yours,  Catherine  Alexevna,  are 
the  fault  of  those  French  philosophers.  I  do  not  know 
anything  about  books  —  thank  God !  And  I  have  no- 
ticed that  people  who  do  are  queer.  But  I  do  know  that 
they  have  given  you  new  and  unwise  notions.  Since 
Voltaire  —  a  curse  upon  his  soul  —  wrote  you,  '  My  heart 
is  a  magnet  that  turns  toward  the  north,'  you  have  thought 
of  nothing  else.  What  are  book-men  good  for  any- 

164 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  BALL 

way?  They  are  simply  nothing,  nothing  at  all,  in  com- 
parison with  a  man  of  action.  A  pack  of  old  women 
—  that  is  what  they  are !  Bah !  I  detest  them.  Book- 
men are  cowards.  They  live  with  their  brains,  because 
they  do  not  dare  to  live  with  their  bodies." 

"  Of  course,  Gregory !  No  philosopher  would  be  fool- 
ish enough  to  follow  his  own  teachings,  any  more  than 
a  doctor  would  take  his  own  medicine.  They  would  both 
rather  be  miserable  according  to  somebody  else's  prescrip- 
tion. Philosophy  is  a  mental  toy  made  to  play  with,  not 
to  live  by.  No  philosopher  takes  himself  seriously.  He 
lets  other  people  do  that." 

"  What  is  a  philosopher  anyway?  " 

"  A  blind  man  who  offers  to  a  dim  world  the  light  of 
his  tallow  candle !  " 

"  This  is  not  play,  your  Royal  Highness." 

"  You  are  unreasonable,  hasty,  in  your  judgments, 
Orlov  —  always.  Why  should  you  take  it  into  your 
head  that  bread  must  be  cake  in  a  minute,  because  you 
wish  it?  Why  can  you  not  consider  distinctions,  differ- 
ences—  value  each  according  to  his  kind?  " 

"  I  am  not  going  to  waste  time  in  arguing  with  your 
Royal  Highness.  The  Empress  may  not  live  two  days. 
Then,  when  the  Grand  Duke  puts  you  aside  and  marries 
Elizabeth  Woronzov,  Voltaire  will  find  that  there  is 
another  —  and  a  stronger  —  magnet  in  the  north." 

"Hush!  Hush!  What  nonsense  you  talk!  I  re- 
peat what  I  said  to  you, —  learn  to  value  each  person  ac- 
cording to  his  kind.  Do  as  I  do !  Now  for  pleasure 
I  read  French  philosophers  —  and  your  friend  Voltaire. 
For  conversation  I  prefer  a  diplomat  or  a  witty  courtier. 
But  for  love  an  officer  of  the  guards  will  do  —  if  he 
happens  to  look  like  you,"  glancing  up  at  the  handsome 
figure  to  whose  charm  no  woman  could  be  indifferent. 

165 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

"  That  is  what  the  world  says,  your  Royal  Highness." 

"What  world?" 

"  Petersburg,  Versailles,  Berlin,  Dresden,  Vienna  1 
What  other  world  is  there  ?  " 

"Well,  what  does  it  say,  Orlov?" 

'*  That  to  you  a  dog,  a  lover,  a  poet  and  a  hero  are 
all  one." 

The  Grand  Duchess  laughed. 

ll  That  is  a  compliment,  Gregory  Orlov !  They  mean, 
I  iuppose,  that  I  am  the  best  judge  in  the  world  of  each. 
You  are  proof  of  it!  You  are  the  handsomest  man  in 
Russia." 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  that  is  what  I  came  here  to  hear, 
Catherine  Alexevna  ?  " 

*  You  do  not  usually  come  to  hear  anything,  Gregory." 

"  I  will  ignore  that  insinuation  also.  Answer  me  this. 
Do  you  know  what  night  to-night  is,  Catherine  Alex- 
enva?" 

"  Of  course  I  do !  It  is  the  night  of  the  masked  ball 
—  and  the  tableaux." 

"  Can  it  be  that  you  do  not  know?  To-night  the  fate 
of  Europe  hangs  in  the  balance !  To-night  — " 

She  interrupted  him  sharply  and  in  a  voice  in  which 
there  was  a  trace  of  fear.  For  greater  caution  she 
spoke  in  French. 

"  Hush !     Hush  —  Gregoire!  " 

Gregory  Orlov  took  the  cue  and  replied  in  French. 
At  this  period  the  court  language  of  Petersburg  was  a 
mixture  of  French  and  German  interspersed  with  occa- 
sional Russian  words. 

"  Can  you  not  count  upon  this  maid  of  yours?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  so,  Gregoire.  She  is  a  spy.  I  am 
sure  of  it!  She  is  in  the  pay  of  the  Grand  Duke  and  the 
Woronzov."  After  a  pause,  she  continued,  "  I  have  it 

166 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  BALL 

now !  "     Going  to  the  desk  she  wrote  and  folded  a  note. 

"  Mafra  Savischna,  take  this  to  Princess  Dashkov. 
Wait  for  an  answer.  Tell  Dsiemba,  my  Calmuck,  to 
wait  for  my  commands  outside  the  door." 

Mafra  Savischna  departed  regretfully. 

"  Now  I  suppose  I  may  be  permitted  to  speak  with 
you,  Catherine  Alexevna,  and  perhaps  have  an  answer  in 
reply.  Do  you  not  realize  that  to-night  is  one  of  the 
great  nights  in  the  history  of  Europe?  Do  you  not 
realize  that  to-night  this  little  hand  of  yours  holds  the 
future  of  the  western  world?  And  you  sit  here  not  car- 
ing, dreaming  over  a  book,  and  letting  the  precious  hours 
slip  by!" 

Catherine  Alexevna  looked  down  at  the  little  hand. 

"  Do  you  not  remember,  Catherine  Alexevna,"  con- 
tinued Gregory  Orlov,  inspired  by  her  indifference  and  in- 
attention, in  his  enthusiasm  pacing  about  the  chamber, 
"  do  you  not  remember  how  the  battles  of  the  Greeks  kept 
the  hordes  of  Persia  from  overrunning  Europe?  To- 
night decides  whether  Russia,  which  rose  like  the  dream 
of  an  Indian  magician  at  the  word  of  the  Regenerator, 
makes  Petersburg  the  ruling  city  or  goes  back  again  to 
its  sleep  by  the  Syrian  deserts.  To-night  will  be  fought 
the  last  battle  between  the  tools  of  Frederick  the  Great 
and  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin,  our  Russian  Richelieu. 
And  you  will  be  the  battle  ground !  "  Catherine  Alexevna 
put  aside  her  air  of  indifference.  She  stuck  her  feet  into 
her  slippers  and  jumped  up,  throwing  the  saut  de  lit  about 
her,  "  What,  is  there  something  new  —  tell  me !  " 

"  It  is  time  your  Royal  Highness  showed  interest. 
You  know  how  long  it  has  been  the  dream  of  the  Prussian 
King  to  dominate  the  north,  to  be  the  one  power,  make 
Berlin  the  one  city!  For  this  he  has  worked  and  plot- 
ted. He  knew  that  there  was  only  one  way  to  realize  that 

167 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

dream,  and  that  was  to  get  the  upper  hand  of  Russia,  to 
make  her  give  up  her  northern  capital  Petersburg,  to  go 
back  to  Moscow  or  Kiev.  In  Russia  he  recognized  his 
greatest  obstacle.  How  many  times  in  these  years  has 
he  thought  to  conquer!  When  our  blessed  Empress, 
Elizabeth  Petrovna,  came  to  the  throne  he  exclaimed, 
'  Relying  upon  the  Sybaritic  nature  of  the  new  Empress, 
I  think  —  /  hope  —  that  when  the  court  moves  to  Mos- 
cow for  the  coronation  it  will  lose  sight  of  Europe  and 
Petersburg.'  How  greatly  was  he  disappointed!  He 
found  out  that  he  had  a  new  foe.  The  Empress  was 
dominated  by  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin,  our  Great  Chan- 
cellor. For  a  quarter  of  a  century  Frederick  of  Prussia's 
plans  —  and  those  of  the  rest  of  Europe  for  that  matter 
—  have  been  checked  by  him.  Has  it  not  been  thrilling, 
Catherine  Alexevna,  this  diplomatic  battle  that  has  lasted 
throughout  the  years?  It  goes  back  to  my  childhood. 
I  heard  it  from  my  father.  We  have  been  the  stage, 
and  Europe  the  interested  audience.  The  victories,  they 
have  been  many,  and  often  on  our  side.  It  has  been 
thrilling  to  watch !  I  can  remember  now  just  how  my 
father's  voice  used  to  tremble  with  pride  when  he  told 
us  children  of  the  Ghostly  Chancellor. 

"  Old  Count  Bestushev  has  fought  and  ruined 
Tscherkassov.  He  put  down  that  fool  of  fortune,  Biron. 
He  tricked  that  trickster  La  Chetardie.  And  he  has 
had  enemies  in  his  own  family,  too,  who  envied  him  and 
helped  play  him  into  hands  that  would  destroy  him! 
His  own  brother  worked  against  him.  He  met  betrayal 
on  every  side.  But  he  did  not  give  up.  Now  he  is  dis- 
posing of  1'Hopital  and  the  subtle  Esterhazy.  The  two 
cannot  match  him !  Think,  Catherine  Alexevna,  for  fif- 
teen years  Petersburg  has  been  Europe's  field  of  diplo- 
macy. Here,  diplomats  won  their  spurs.  If  accredited 

168 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  BALL 

and  successful,  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  desired. 
We  have  seen  the  best  that  training  can  produce.  From 
France  we  have  had  La  Chetardie,  1'Hopital,  Segur,  de 
Broglie;  from  Prussia,  Baron  Mardefeld  —  not  to  men- 
tion others.  And  all  sent  for  one  purpose  —  to  work  the 
downfall  of  the  Great  Chancellor.  To  see  him  now  one 
would  say  that  it  was  really  a  ghost  fighting  with  the 
living,  a  phantom  whom  some  unexplained  force  makes 
intermittently  visible. 

"  And  what  has  he  done  with  them,  Catherine  Alex- 
evna  ?  What  has  he  done  with  them  —  these  enemies  of 
his  ?  Brushed  them  aside  lightly  and  easily !  Splendid ! 
Splendid !  Ah  I  —  it  has  been  interesting  to  watch  — 
this  duel  of  the  two  ablest  men  in  Europe !  And  one  is 
a  man  of  the  people.  And  one  is  the  most  arrogant  of 
kings.  Splendid !  Splendid ! 

"  How  they  have  fought !  How  they  have  plotted ! 
How  they  have  schemed!  How  they  have  watched  for 
an  unprotected  place !  With  each,  death  meant  not 
merely  annihilation  of  self,  but  the  annihilation  of  a 
kingdom." 

"  And  now,  Orlov?  " 

"  Her  Majesty  is  at  death's  door.  Now  the  last  round 
—  the  most  perilous  round  —  of  the  duel  is  at  hand. 
Now,  if  the  fall  of  the  Ghostly  Chancellor  can  be  accom- 
plished to-night,  and  you  gained  for  Prussia,  the  Prussian 
king  has  won  his  point.  New  Russia  will  be  no  more." 

"But  the  Grand  Duke?" 

"  He  is  Prussian  to  the  core.  You  know  he  is!  He 
cannot  even  speak  the  Russian  language.  It  was  he  who 
sent  the  plans  of  our  army  to  Prussia  in  the  present 
war." 

Gregory  Orlov  was  well  informed,  she  thought.  But 
it  was  her  habit  to  receive  information,  not  to  give  it. 

169 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

"  To-night,  Catherine  Alexevna,  the  Prussian  king 
is  in  the  sorest  of  straits.  This  you  have  not  heard. 
Our  arms  are  again  victorious.  They  only  await  the 
orders  of  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin  to-night  to  storm  Ber- 
lin. A  special  detachment  of  Cossacks  and  Croatians  un- 
der General  Panin  are  awaiting  that  order  now.  When 
that  order  comes  —  it  will  be  to-night,  if  the  Russian 
party  at  court  wins  the  upper  hand  —  they  are  going  to 
demand  one  hundred  thousand  rubles  to  feast  our  soldiers. 

'*  Think  what  that  means  to  Berlin !  The  city  is  poor. 
The  war  has  exhausted  it.  It  is  all  the  Prussians  can  do 
to  feed  their  army.  Already  Suvarov  has  been  made 
governor  of  Konigsberg.  They  are  going  to  prepare  a 
Russian  law  system  for  the  city  and  set  up  a  mint.  The 
wily  Frederick  cannot  fight  the  allied  powers.  He  knows 
it.  He  knows  likewise  that  it  is  Russia  that  will  turn 
the  balance  for  defeat  or  victory.  He  knows  that  the 
destruction  of  his  dynasty  is  at  stake,  his  home,  his  coun- 
try. Defeat  means  ruin.*' 

"  Go  on,  go  on,  Orlov  — " 

"  If  he  can  gain  a  little  time,  Catherine  Alexevna,  until 
her  Majesty  dies,  it  is  agreed  that  if  the  Grand  Duke 
Peter  rule,  only  for  one  day,  that  day  he  will  depose  the 
Great  Chancellor.  Then,  if  he  can  gain  you  —  he  knows 
as  do  we  all  that  the  Grand  Duke  cannot  reign  —  he  is 
saved,  is  he  not?  " 

"And  to-night,  Orlov?" 

"  To-night  Petersburg  is  filled  with  the  spies  and  the 
secret  messengers  of  Prussia.  To-night  Frederick  the 
Great  will  offer  the  half  of  his  kingdom  in  coined  gold 
to  you  and  to  Count  Bestushev  to  call  off  the  besieging 
army.  On  my  way  to  the  palace  I  have  been  offered  a 
duchy.  To-night  there  is  no  one  who  will  not  be  ap- 
proached." 

170 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  BALL 

"Just  now  you  heard  this,  Orlov?" 
"  Yes.  But  court  intrigues  grow  like  mushrooms. 
Who  can  tell  what  has  happened  since  I  came?  And 
here  is  another  point  you  must  take  under  consideration. 
If  Frederick  the  Great  could  keep  the  Grand  Duke,  your 
husband,  upon  the  throne,  since  he  is  feeble  of  mind  and 
will  and  devoted  to  him,  he  would  rule  Russia.  Then 
—  now  listen,  Catherine  Alexevna  —  then,  in  case  he  can- 
not gain  you  and  still  fears  you  — " 

"  Then  he  would  cause  me  to  be  put  aside  for  Eliza- 
beth Woronzov.  She  could  be  amused  with  gems  of 
which  she  is  greedy  and  — " 

"  Then,  Catherine  Alexevna,  you  would  disappear. 
You  would  not  be  seen  again.  Then,  there  would  hap- 
pen one  of  those  mysterious  deaths  of  Russia.  Try  to 
realize  this !  Try  to  realize  the  danger ! 

"  But  Frederick  the  Great  has  one  more  card  to  play 
before  he  attempts  anything  so  serious,  one  card  which  he 
thinks  will  win.  It  is  something  held  in  abeyance  for 
years  for  a  crisis  like  this." 

Catherine  Alexevna,  with  the  duplicity  which  the  train- 
ing of  years  had  given,  did  not  disclose  the  information 
which  she  had  had  from  Maschuta.  Nor  did  Gregory 
Orlov  disclose  the  information  which  he  had  had  from 
the  same  source.  He  was  counting  upon  the  surprise 
when  it  was  told  her  by  the  spies  at  some  critical  mo- 
ment later  in  the  night. 

;<  The  wily  Frederick  is  playing  as  usual  a  double 
game.  He  will  offer  to  the  Grand  Duke  and  to  myself, 
each  separately,  his  support  in  obtaining  the  crown. 
Then  he  will  plot  to  destroy  the  one  who  refuses  his  con- 
ditions, or  who  promises  to  be  least  useful  to  his  plans. 

A  knock  was  heard  at  the  door. 

"  Come,"  commanded  the  Grand  Duchess. 

171 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

Dsiemba,  the  Calmuck  slave,  entered. 

"  Your  Royal  Highness,  a  messenger  waits  from  Count 
Bestushev-Rjumin." 

"  Bring  him  in." 

The  messenger  entered  and  gave  her  a  sealed  letter. 

"  Dsiemba,  the  candles." 

Dsiemba  brought  in  the  candles  which  he  lighted  after 
placing  two  at  the  foot  of  the  great  bed,  two  at  the  head 
of  the  day-bed,  and  one  on  either  side  of  the  desk.  By 
their  light  she  read  the  letter  and  then  destroyed  it. 

"  Tell  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin  that  I  read  and  obey." 

Dsiemba  and  the  messenger  made  obeisance  and  left 
the  room. 

"  Is  the  letter  important?  "  queried  Orlov,  who  knew 
that  it  was  from  Count  Bestushev. 

"  He  commands  me  to  disguise  myself  in  the  uniform 
of  the  Preobrashensky  regiment  and  go  to  Muhr's  Coffee 
House  on  the  Morskoi,  and  remain  there  until  after  the 
masking  at  the  ball  is  over.  There,  I  shall  find  the  Grand 
Duke,  Prussian  and  French  spies,  and  Elizabeth  Woron- 
zov  and  Countess  Bruce,  disguised  as  men.  He  says  that 
it  is  necessary  that  I  myself  hear  what  they  say." 

"  Go !    Dress  at  once." 

"But  how  can  I?" 

"Why  not?" 

"  The  ball !  I  am  commanded  to  be  there  by  her 
Majesty.  Besides  I  am  in  disfavor.  I  should  not  dare 
disobey." 

"  Luckily,  Catherine  Alexevna,  the  first  part  is  a  masked 
ball.  That  helps  you  out  of  the  difficulty.  Someone  can 
take  your  place  until  the  masking  is  over." 

"But  who?" 

"  Who  can  you  trust?  " 

"That  is  just  it  1     Who  can  I?" 

172 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  BALL 

"  The  Empress  would  not  forgive  disobedience.  I  sup- 
pose it  has  leaked  out  —  everything  does  at  court  —  that 
I  am  to  wear  a  black  domino." 

"  Whoever  takes  your  place  will  learn  dangerous 
secrets.  And  to-night  of  all  nights !  It  must  be  someone 
who  is  devoted  to  you." 

"  I  cannot  announce  that  it  is  not  1 1  " 

"  Your  double  will  learn  dangerous  secrets." 

"Of  course!" 

"  There  will  be  no  way  to  safeguard  your  friends. 
They  need  to  be  protected  as  well  as  yourself.  They 
would  be  imprisoned." 

"  That  is  just  it." 

"  You  must  have  a  double  whom  you  can  trust." 

"Yes,  yes!" 

"Ah!  — I  have  it!" 

"Who?" 

"  Nicholas  Murievich." 

The  Grand  Duchess  became  silent.  Something  snapped 
the  chain  of  her  thoughts.  For  the  instant  she  became  an 
automaton.  But  upon  her  face  there  was  no  trace  of  the 
effect  of  his  words.  He  stood  scrutinizing  her  with  eager 
eyes.  But  even  he  who  knew  her  well  could  read  nothing 
upon  that  mask  of  marble.  Slowly,  destructively,  an  idea 
burrowed  its  way  through  her  brain.  It  moved  in  many 
a  crossed  and  zigzag  line,  just  as  a  worm  burrows  through 
the  heart  of  an  apple.  She  understood  now  the  command 
to  procure  a  black  domino  and  one  some  sizes  too  large. 
She  linked  fact  with  fact  with  nimble  precision.  She  saw 
what  was  coming.  And  it  had  come  so  swiftly,  so  unex- 
pectedly, that  she  was  powerless  to  avert  it.  The  plot 
was  so  compounded  that  to  fight  against  it  meant  the 
destruction  of  herself.  Plainly  stated,  it  meant  a  choice 
between  her  own  life  and  the  life  of  Nicholas  Murievich. 

173 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

What  ironical  justice  that  the  news  should  be  brought 
by  Gregory !  But  it  was  not  Gregory  who  was  behind  it. 
It  was  the  Great  Chancellor.  Only  he  could  so  imitate 
the  blind  cruelty  of  Fate.  She  felt  no  anger  toward  either 
of  them.  They  had  merely  checkmated  her  in  the  game 
which  is  life,  at  a  point  where  she  thought  she  was  pro- 
tected and,  therefore,  not  looking.  She  had  been  out- 
played. But  she  did  not  mean  to  yield.  She  would  save 
him.  She  would  outplay  them  in  the  end.  And  they 
should  not  know  that  she  had  understood.  She  would 
not  show  anger  or  any  opposition.  That  would  mean 
death  to  him.  And  if  she  did  avert  the  blow  to-night,  he 
should  leave  Russia  at  dawn,  guided  across  the  border 
by  trusty  servants  of  her  own,  and  put  out  of  the  way  of 
danger.  How  she  regretted  that  she  had  importuned 
him  to  return  to  Russia ! 

But  she  would  save  him!  She  would  save  him  by 
apparently  acquiescing.  She  would  impress  upon  him 
that  he  must  not  leave  the  ball  room  of  the  Winter  Palace 
until  she  returned  at  the  time  of  unmasking.  Then,  there 
would  be  no  danger.  She  understood  that  the  plan  was 
to  lure  him  away.  All  this  she  had  thought  rapidly. 

"  Is  he  not  the  one,  your  Highness?  "  persisted  Orlov. 
"  He  has  mimicked  you  for  the  amusement  of  your 
friends.  When  he  wishes,  he  can  be  your  other  self." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure,  Orlov,  that  he  is  the  one.  Do  you 
really  think  so?  " 

"  Well,  then,  think  of  someone  else !  Is  there  anyone 
else  whom  you  can  trust  with  secrets  whose  disclosure 
would  cost  your  life?  " 

Ah !  —  he  had  said  it,  Orlov !  It  was  her  life  against 
his!  That  was  a  diplomatic  error  on  his  part.  He 
should  not  have  said  that. 

Silence  fell  between  them  heavy  and  ominous.     The 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  BALL 

eyes  of  the  Grand  Duchess  were  riveted  upon  the  brutal 
gold  of  the  Turkish  washbasin  which  was  the  trophy  of 
bloody  wars.  The  candles  had  found  there  the  hearts 
of  sullen  rubies  that  hid  their  secrets  from  the  day,  just 
as  skilfully  as  she  did.  As  she  looked  at  the  Turkish 
trophy,  she  thought  how  everything  in  Russia  —  even 
life  —  must  be  the  prize  of  battle. 

The  face  of  Orlov  was  white  and  determined.  She 
paused  to  criticize  him  in  her  thoughts  for  fighting  too 
openly  for  revenge.  Her  mind  was  a  diamond  of  multi- 
ple facets  that  reflected  each  slightest  shadow  of  thought. 

"  Are  you  not  going  to  be  game,  Catherine  Alex- 
evna  ?  " 

There  was  no  answer.  There  was  no  change  of  expres- 
sion upon  the  impassive  face.  She  was  thinking  of  that 
pitiful  letter  of  the  morning  before  and  its  trusting  love. 
She  was  thinking,  too,  of  that  other  letter  from  the  banks 
of  the  Pregel  with  its  premonition  of  death  if  he  returned. 
She  recalled  the  night  at  Oranienbaum  when  he  left  her 
in  the  dawn,  telling  her  that  his  life  depended  upon  her, 
that  she  must  not  falter.  But  who  could  have  foreseen  a 
combination  like  this!  A  combination  that  placed  her 
life,  and  Russia,  in  the  balance  against  his!  There  was 
just  one  man  who  could  foresee  such  things  and  put  them 
into  execution.  That  was  Count  Bestushev.  But  she  did 
not  feel  anger  toward  him  nor  Orlov.  It  was  merely  a 
clever  play  in  a  game.  She  admired  its  cleverness.  She 
would  have  admired  it  just  the  same  if  it  had  cost  her 
own  life.  Her  nature  had  become  so  complex  that  it  re- 
sponded to  many  and  varied  emotions  at  the  same  time. 
Perhaps,  she  would  have  sacrificed  her  own  life. 

But  she  could  not  sacrifice  Russia!  The  cunning  fox 
had  calculated  upon  just  this.  Her  devotion  to  Russia 
was  great  as  his  own.  His  love  for  her  was  dependent 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

upon  this.  She  walked  across  to  the  desk,  wrote  a  note 
and  called  Dsiemba. 

"  Dsiemba,  send  this  by  Kusma  to  Nicholas  Murievich. 
Tell  him  to  answer  in  person.  Then,  take  my  uniform  of 
the  Preobrashensky  regiment  into  my  dressing  room  off 
the  boudoir." 

"Shall  I  go  with  you  to  Muhr's  on  the  Morskoi?" 
asked  Orlov,  as  indifferently  as  if  no  discussion  had  taken 
place  between  them.  She  was  grateful  to  him  for  not 
showing  the  triumph  of  a  person  who  has  won. 

"  No;  go  on  to  the  ball.  In  the  intermission,  or  when- 
ever you  can  slip  away,  join  me  at  Muhr's  and  we  will 
return  to  the  palace  together." 

"  Are  you  going  as  you  are?  " 

"  Yes,  with  exception  of  an  eye-mask.  To-night  I 
cannot  afford  the  danger  of  disguise." 

Dsiemba  knocked  and  was  admitted. 

"  The  order  of  your  Royal  Highness  has  been  obeyed." 

Dsiemba  returned  to  his  place  of  duty  outside  the  door. 

"  I  will  be  back  in  a  few  moments,"  said  the  Grand 
Duchess,  starting  toward  her  boudoir  to  put  on  the  sol- 
dier's suit. 

"  Have  you  a  fidibus?  "  called  Orlov,  as  she  neared  the 
archway  of  the  boudoir. 

"  Yes;  somewhere  there.  On  my  study  table,  I  think," 
disappearing  through  the  door. 

Orlov  walked  across  to  the  desk  where  he  found  a 
package  of  the  small  cigarette  shaped  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury cigars  then  in  vogue.  He  lighted  one  from  a  candle 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room 
smoking. 

"She  took  it  coolly!  With  little  or  no  resistance. 
Does  that  mean  that  she  does  not  care  or  that  she  yields? 
Or  does  it  mean  that  she  is  reserving  her  energy  for  a 

176 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  BALL 

struggle?     Or  does  it  mean  that  she  will  outwit  us  with- 
out apparent  effort? 

"  What  a  night  this  will  be  for  me !  It  will  permit  me 
to  perform  the  last  service  for  Maschuta  —  revenge. 
And,  if  things  go  well,  it  will  find  me  a  humble  officer  of 
the  guards,  and  leave  me  on  the  threshold  of  the  throne. 
If  Prussia  loses,  and  the  Empress  Elizabeth  dies  —  as 
soon  she  must  —  the  Grand  Duke  will  seek  immortality 
in  the  only  way  that  he,  poor  fool,  will  find  it  —  death. 
That  has  been  an  ancient  and  well  established  glory  for 
unpopular  rulers  of  Russia.  To  procure  glory  by  dying 
is  a  good  way.  It  precludes  the  disillusioning  element  of 
change.  Catherine  Alexevna  will  reign.  And  then  — 
and  then  —  when  Murievich  is  safely  out  of  the  way! 
This  time  he  will  have  the  honor  of  preceding  a  Grand 
Duke  to  the  fields  of  glory.  And  then  —  and  then  —  I 
have  looked  fortune  bravely  in  the  eye  —  and  she  has 
favored  me. 

"It  is  good  for  me  —  but  then  all  things  have  been 
good  for  me !  —  that  in  Holy  Russia  it  is  not  necessary 
to  have  been  born  to  the  purple.  Here  one  may  be  any- 
thing. It  is  only  the  present  that  counts.  Each  has  an 
opportunity.  Brain  and  nerve  determine  events  —  and 
when  women  rule  —  beauty." 

"Gregory!  Gregory!"  called  the  Grand  Duchess 
from  her  boudoir. 

The  clear  merriment  of  the  voice  displeased  him.  If 
he  were  to  die  to-night,  would  she  care  as  little  ? 

"  You  will  not  know  me !  But  you  never  saw  anything 
so  becoming!" 

She  came  into  the  chamber  wearing  the  uniform  of  the 
Preobrashensky  regiment.  She  had  on  a  black,  curling 
wig.  Her  skin  was  darkened  to  harmonize  with  her  hair. 
She  bowed,  laughing,  and  took  off  her  cap. 

177 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

"  Semen  Savelish,  at  your  service,  Sir,  from  near  Jassy, 
in  Little  Russia." 

"  By  the  body  of  holy  Isaac !  They  will  really  think 
you  are  a  Little  Russian.  What  if  they  should  put  it  to 
the  test?  What  if  they  should  ask  you  to  dance  the  stork 
dance?" 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  could  not  —  or  that  I  could  not 
speak  their  dialect?  I  would  dance  it  this  way." 

She  placed  her  arms  akimbo,  tilted  over  her  cap,  and 
began  the  dance,  singing  the  song  that  accompanied  it, 

"  Oh  I  the  eagles  have  put  the  doves  to  flight !  " 

Dsiemba  entered  and  announced  Nicholas  Murievich. 

She  paused  in  her  dancing. 

"  Good  evening,  Orlov.  The  Grand  Duchess  sent  for 
me.  Is  she  not  here?  " 

For  the  space  of  a  second  the  two  men  stood  side  by 
side  presenting  an  interesting  contrast. 

"  She  just  went  into  her  dressing  room,  Murievich. 
She  wished  you  to  see  this  Little  Russian  —  a  protege  of 
hers  —  dance  the  stork  dance." 

"  Come, —  begin  again !  " 

This  time  Orlov  sang  the  song  while  the  Grand  Duchess 
danced.  When  she  had  finished,  she  turned  to  him 
laughing. 

"I  fooled  you,  did  I  not?" 

"  Is  it  you?    Is  it  possible,  Catherine  Alexevna?  " 

"  If  I  can  fool  you,  I  can  fool  anyone !  Now  that  is 
just  what  I  sent  to  you  for  1  I  wish  you  to  fool  me !  " 

"  That  is  it,  Murievich." 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  stammered  Nicholas  Murievich. 

"  I  mean  just  what  I  say.  I  wish  you  to  be  me  to-night." 

11  Be  serious,  your  Highness !  What  is  it  that  you 
wish?" 

178 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  BALL 

"  Count  Bestushev  has  commanded  me  to  put  on  this 
disguise  and  go  to  Muhr's  on  the  Morskoi.  It  is  impera- 
tive. It  is  likewise  imperative  that  I  go  to  the  ball.  It  is 
the  command  of  her  Majesty.  I  represent  her  to-night. 
Now  I  cannot  be  two  persons,  can  I,  at  one  and  the  same 
time  ?  What  shall  I  do  ?  This :  You  will  have  to  be  my 
other  self." 

"  There  is  no  other  way  out  of  it,  Murievich,"  broke 
in  Orlov.  "  You  are  the  only  one  who  can  do  it." 

"  Besides,  Nicholas  Murievich,  I  am  in  displeasure 
with  her  Majesty.  I  dare  not  disobey.  It  would  be  ruin- 
ous. I  will  return  in  court  dress  for  the  unmasking,  when 
the  ladies  change  costumes.  No  one  will  be  the  wiser 
save  you  and  I,  and  Orlov  here  —  and  Count  Bestushev." 

He  became  attentive  at  name  of  the  Great  Chancellor. 

"  Whatever  Count  Bestushev  commands,  you  must  do. 
He  has  your  welfare  at  heart.  That  is  the  thing  to  be  con- 
sidered." 

She  saw  again  the  nobility  of  his  nature. 

"  But,  Nicholas  Murievich,  you  must  promise  me  one 
thing  —  solemnly  —  before  you  go.  If  you  do  not,  you 
shall  not  go.  You  must  promise  me  not  to  leave  the  ball- 
room of  the  Winter  Palace  under  any  consideration  what- 
soever." 

"  But  why  this  earnestness?  " 

"  It  is  important !  I  cannot  tell  you  why  now.  But  if 
you  keep  the  promise,  all  will  be  well.  No  matter  what 
the  pretext  may  be,  do  not  go  outside  the  palace.  I  will 
tell  Dsiemba  to  wait  for  you  in  the  corridor  to  the  right 
of  the  ballroom.  When  the  order  for  unmasking  comes, 
if  I  have  not  returned,  you  go  to  him.  He  will  take  you 
to  a  dressing  room  to  which  your  court  suit  will  be 
brought." 

"  Of  course,  I  promise,  if  it  pleases  you,"  he  replied,  in 

179 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

the  dull  voice  of  one  who  yields  to  a  caprice.     "  But  your 
disguise,  can  I  wear  it?" 

"  Of  course !    Here  it  is." 

"  Is  it  not  fortunate  she  chose  a  domino,  Murievich?  " 

"  Is  it  known  that  your  Royal  Highness  is  to  wear 
this  to-night?  If  it  is,  it  will  make  it  harder  for  me." 

"  Very  likely  it  is  known.  But  I  have  tried  to  keep  it 
secret." 

"  But  what  secret  was  ever  kept  at  court?  "  questioned 
Orlov,  insolently. 

"  The  Grand  Duke  may  know  it,  Nicholas  Murievich. 
Mafra  Savischna  may  have  told  him." 

"  If  the  Grand  Duke  knows  it,  Murievich,  other  people 
know  it.  His  way  of  keeping  a  secret  is  to  give  it  over 
to  the  keeping  of  his  friends." 

"  Where  is  Mafra  Savischna?  "  asked  Nicholas  Murie- 
vich, looking  about. 

"  Out  of  the  way  for  once !  "  exclaimed  Orlov. 

"  I  sent  her  with  a  note  to  Princess  Dashkov.  She  will 
understand  what  that  means  and  have  her  locked  up  for 
to-night.  So  you  see  no  one  but  you  two  and  Count  Bes- 
tushev  will  know  that  I  am  at  Muhr's.  The  Dashkov 
will  be  ravishing  to-night  in  her  fancy  dress." 

"  What  is  it?  "  questioned  the  two  in  concert. 

"  A  Moldavian  peasant's  gala  costume.  By  the  way, 
Nicholas  Murievich,  if  you  have  an  opportunity,  you  tell 
her  as  soon  as  you  can  where  I  am.  I  count  upon  herl 
Come,  Gregory,  let  us  dress  Nicholas  Murievich,"  the 
pleasure  audible  in  her  voice  of  his  given  promise  not  to 
leave  the  ballroom. 

"  Off  with  your  wig !  Gregory,  bring  the  black  petti- 
coat that  goes  under  the  domino." 

They  pulled  it  over  his  head  and  the  Grand  Duchess 
fastened  it  in  the  back  and  pulled  it  down  into  place. 

180 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  BALL 

"Wait!  Wait!"  commanded  Nicholas  Murievich, 
waving  them  away,  while  he  picked  up  one  of  the  Grand 
Duchess's  wigs  from  the  washstand  and  her  sable  pelisse 
and  put  them  on. 

"  Now  permit  me  to  give  you  an  imitation  of  the  Grand 
Duchess  of  Russia !  Now  this  is  the  way  the  Grand 
Duchess  walks  when  she  goes  to  confess  to  the  very 
saintly  Feodor  Jakovlevitch  Dubjansky.  Demurely. 
Modestly.  Her  eyes  upon  her  shoes.  So!  So!  The 
Grand  Duchess  is  devout.  She  does  not  neglect  her  reli- 
gious duties. 

'  This  is  the  way  the  Grand  Duchess  walks  when  she 
goes  to  give  an  unwelcome  account  of  adventures  to  her 
Majesty.  With  dignity  and  an  air  of  aggrieved  inno- 
cence." 

The  Grand  Duchess  laughed  merrily  and  a  happy  light 
came  into  her  eyes. 

"  Enough !  Enough !  "  she  called,  jestingly.  "  You 
shall  not  mimic  me  like  this." 

"  Famosf  Famos!  "  declared  Orlov,  ready  as  ever  to 
be  amused. 

"  But  this  is  the  way  the  Grand  Duchess  walks  when  at 
night  she  goes  to  the  house  of  Leo  Narishkin  in  a  gay 
disguise  to  meet  our  Slavic  Apollo.  Boldly.  With  her 
head  in  the  air.  So!  So!" 

"  Enough !    Enough !    I  will  stand  no  more." 

"  Famos!    Famos!  "  reiterated  Orlov. 

"  Now,  Gregory,  you  bring  the  domino."  They  put  it 
on.  "  Now  the  mask,"  called  the  Grand  Duchess,  taking 
it  from  the  marble  statue. 

"  And  the  hood." 

"  No  one  would  ever  know  you,  Murievich!  " 

"  Never  in  the  world !  " 

"  Is  there  anything  else  to  put  on?    Or  is  this  all?  " 

181 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

"  Yes,  yes  I  These  black  gloves.  And  under  them  my 
signet  ring  to  be  used  in  case  of  need.  This  will  prove 
that  you  really  are  the  Grand  Duchess  of  Russia.  Now 
you  must  go.  The  time  is  up.  But  remember  your  prom- 
ise !  Do  not  leave  the  ballroom  of  the  Winter  Palace 
until  I  return.  Remember!  God  be  with  you !  " 

"Be  all  ears,  good  friend  Murievich !  "  called  out 
Orlov.  "  The  saints  protect  you !  " 

After  the  door  had  closed,  Catherine  Alexevna  and 
Gregory  Orlov  avoided  each  other's  eyes.  She  broke  the 
silence,  "  Give  me  a  fidibus,  Gregory." 

He  held  out  the  case.  She  took  one  and  lighted  it  from 
a  candle  and  walked  about  the  room. 

'  You  ought  to  be  going,  too,  Gregory.  You  cannot 
afford  to  be  absent  when  the  ball  opens.  Join  me  at 
Muhr's  in  the  intermission,  anyway!  And  before,  if  you 
can  get  off." 

'  There  may  be  a  rough  crowd  at  Muhr's  to-night, 
m'Amie.  Be  careful !  " 

"  No  one  would  know  me  in  this  disguise.  Besides,  I 
have  my  sword." 

'  Then  au  revoir,"  he  called,  as  his  handsome  figure 
disappeared  beneath  the  Persian  curtain. 

"  Au  revoir,  Gregoire! "  she  answered,  but  without 
looking  up  at  him,  waving  her  cigarette. 

No  sooner  was  she  alone  than  her  expression  changed 
to  one  of  worry  and  annoyance.  She  smoked  on  gloom- 
ily. Phantoms  of  fear  chased  themselves  across  her  brain. 

"  Life  seems  to  demand  of  me  murder  after  murder. 
And  it  demands  it  in  such  a  way  that  the  alternative  is  my 
own  life." 

'  Yes,"  she  said  aloud,  in  a  changed  voice,  "  they  forced 
my  hand  cleverly,  Orlov  and  Count  Bestushev.  I  acqui- 
esced. That  was  the  only  way  to  save  him.  But  I  will 

182 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  BALL 

checkmate  them  yet,  if  he  obeys  me.  And  to-morrow 
Nicholas  Murievich  shall  leave  Russia  and  not  return 
until  I  am  in  power.  Will  it  ever  be  over  —  the  suspense, 
the  dissimulation,  the  making  believe  that  I  am  indiffer- 
ent when  I  am  often  worn  with  anxiety?  But  it  is  best! 
Results  prove  it.  My  friends  think  that  it  is,  they  who 
are  doing  it,  they  who  are  pushing  me  to  the  throne.  If 
they  knew  I  was  ambitious,  they  would  fear  me  and  cease. 
All  but  Orlov!  His  fortune  is  bound  up  with  mine. 
Self-interest  would  keep  him  true." 

She  called  Dsiemba  and  sent  him  to  find  out  if  the 
Grand  Duke  and  Elizabeth  Woronzov  had  left  the  palace. 
He  brought  word  that  they  were  still  in  their  apartments. 

"  It  is  not  time  for  me  to  go  there  then,"  she  thought. 
"  I  must  not  reach  Muhr's  until  they  have  been  in  the 
house  some  time  and  are  busy  amusing  themselves." 

She  threw  away  the  cigarette  and  walked  restlessly 
about  the  room. 

"  I  wonder  if  to-night  will  end  it?  It  will  be  a  change 
to  face,"  she  said  to  herself,  with  slow  conviction. 

She  consulted  her  watch.  Time  moved  slowly.  She 
picked  up  and  then  threw  down  three  books  upon  her 
desk.  She  could  not  concentrate  her  mind  sufficiently  to 
read.  The  present  was  not  pleasant  to  consider.  In  its 
place  memories  of  the  past  swept  through  her  brain  in 
that  hour  of  anxiety,  while  she  paced  her  chamber  in  soli- 
tude and  waited  for  Dsiemba  to  come  to  tell  her  that  the 
others  had  started  for  the  Coffee  House  on  the  Morskoi. 

She  recalled  sharply,  without  effort  of  direction  on  her 
own  part,  perhaps  because  it  was  the  point  of  parting 
forever  from  the  past,  how  she  used  to  dream  in  childhood 
of  that  unknown  Slavic  land  whose  people  lived  amid 
gold.  She  remembered  well  that  first  glimpse  of  awful 
Russia.  It  was  at  Riga.  She  could  not  forget  that.  She 

183 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

had  just  come  through  the  silent  pine  forests  of  Lithuania. 
It  was  winter.  When  the  sleigh  emerged  from  the  black 
trees,  on  all  sides  the  snow  fields  spread  with  the  impos- 
ing, glittering  splendor  of  a  Polar  ocean.  Next  came 
Petersburg.  Here,  they  paused  just  long  enough  for  the 
horses  to  be  changed.  Then,  on  again  the  long  sleigh 
journey  went  for  days  and  days,  across  interminable 
whitenesses,  to  the  heart  of  old  Russia,  to  Holy  Moscow, 
where  the  court  was.  She  recalled,  as  if  it  had  been  but 
yesterday,  the  great  country  houses  along  the  way,  the 
nights  of  feasting,  the  wild  revelry.  Men  with  bearded 
faces  looked  across  the  wine  cups.  They  wore  flashing 
gems  in  their  ears. 

By  night  flaming  pine  trees  lighted  the  way.  The  lux- 
urious sledges  were  covered  with  ermine  and  gold  bro- 
cade. This  reasonless  luxury  had  made  her  think  that  it 
was  all  a  dream.  She  aroused  herself  from  her  picture 
revery  sufficiently  to  realize  sharply  that  perhaps  she  had 
never  awakened  from  that  dream.  It  had  stupefied  her. 

It  was  at  Riga  that  she  received  the  first  present  from 
her  Russian  Majesty:  a  cloak  and  boots  of  sable,  lined 
with  cloth  of  gold.  There  were  twenty  or  thirty  sleighs 
in  the  cortege  then.  When  they  approached  Moscow, 
they  stopped  long  enough  to  put  on  court  dress  for  pres- 
entation to  her  Majesty.  When  again  the  sleighs  went 
on,  there  were  sixteen  horses  attached  to  each  sleigh. 
Out  across  the  snow  they  could  hear  the  wolves  howling  — 
always  howling  across  the  snow.  Death  waited  on  the 
horizon.  That  made  it  Russia. 

A  late  spring  came  after  that  first  Russian  winter.  She 
recalled  how  she  accompanied  the  Empress  on  the  annual 
pilgrimage  to  the  Troitsko  Sergius  Cloister  to  pray  for 
the  soul  of  her  father,  Peter  the  Great.  This  building 

184 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  BALL 

was  filled  with  treasures.  The  iconostase  was  of  gold. 
Bursting  upon  one  suddenly  within  the  dim  interior  of  the 
church  it  was  like  a  great  sun  rising  unexpectedly  out  of 
darkness.  There  were  pictures  of  saints  framed  in  dia- 
monds, emeralds,  topazes,  black  and  white  pearls,  the 
baroque,  the  brutal  gemming  of  Asia.  There  were  books 
of  the  Gospel  with  covers  of  beaten  gold,  the  clasps  made 
of  Grecian  cameos.  There  were  oriental  hangings  upon 
which  prayers  were  written  in  pearls.  There  were  piles 
of  uncut  gems,  the  dream  of  Solomon's  treasure  house 
come  true. 

Then  the  music !  She  recalled  how  it  terrified  her.  It 
was  unlike  any  that  she  had  heard  before.  It  burst  forth 
like  a  storm  with  its  thunders.  They  were  chanting  the 
responses  of  the  liturgy.  For  the  first  time  she  heard  her 
own  name  —  that  strange,  new,  Russian  name  —  roll 
forth  upon  the  tide  of  the  music. 

"  Pray  for  the  soul  of  the  promised  bride  of  his 
Imperial  Highness,  the  orthodox  Great  Princess  of  Rus- 
sia, Catherine  Alexevna !  " 

And  to-night,  too,  they  had  prayed  for  the  soul  of 
Catherine  Alexevna. 

Best  of  all  she  remembered  the  journey  to  Kiev,  across 
the  fields  of  the  Ukraine  in  spring.  There  she  and  the 
Grand  Duke  had  made  their  vows  to  the  saints  of  the 
Petshersky  Cloister.  She  loved  Little  Russia.  She  had 
always  loved  it  since,  and  the  great  grass  meadows  of 
the  Don.  This  journey  took  all  summer.  It  was  her 
first  glimpse  of  interior  Russia  —  old  Muscovite  Russia. 

She  recalled  the  endless  ways  that  wound  across  the 
fields,  the  infinite  fields  of  Little  Russia.  The  measure- 
less land !  Wherever  one  looked  there  was  something 
vast  whose  beginning  and  end  one  might  not  know.  And 

185 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

the  far,  shining  horizon  that  stretched  eastward  to  the 
ancient  deserts.  Everywhere  the  brooding  wonder  of 
immensity  whose  nearness  made  one  mad. 

At  the  gates  of  Kiev,  the  old  capital  city  of  the  Ukraine, 
a  procession  of  holy  men  came  to  meet  them,  bearing  the 
emblems  of  the  city.  Among  these  there  were  heathen 
statues,  and  a  tiny  figure  of  gold  and  ivory  representing 
the  pagan  Venus.  This  recalled  her  sharply  to  the  pres- 
ent. 

It  resembled  the  gift  which  Nicholas  Murievich  had 
brought  her  from  the  banks  of  the  Pregel.  Elizabeth 
Petrovna  regarded  the  diminutive  statue  with  reverence. 
But  the  Grand  Duke  regarded  it  with  terror.  He  trem- 
bled and  turned  white.  Then,  the  Empress  told  how  her 
father  had  revered  and  loved  it.  He  declared  that  the 
Venus  of  the  Greeks  was  still  alive,  and  that  she  had 
come  to  the  north  and  there  changed  and  grown  cruel.  A 
lady  of  the  court  interrupted  her,  exclaiming,  "  See  how 
the  Grand  Duchess  resembles  the  pagan  statue !  " 

And,  as  she  looked  at  it,  she  trembled,  because  the  face 
of  this  ancient  goddess  seemed  to  have  borrowed  the  cruel 
pallor  of  snow. 

A  knock  interrupted  her  meditation. 

"  Come  in." 

Dsiemba  entered. 

"  The  valet  of  the  Grand  Duke,  your  Royal  Highness, 
just  told  me  that  his  master  left  the  palace  more  than  an 
hour  ago.  He  left  by  a  private  exit." 

Dsiemba  bowed  and  disappeared. 

Catherine  Alexevna  tightened  the  sword  strap  about 
her  waist,  adjusted  the  small  cap  carefully  upon  her  head, 
and  followed  Dsiemba  nimbly  out  the  door. 

186 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  MASKED  BALL 

The  splendid  George  Salon  of  the  Winter  Palace  was 
one  of  the  rooms  which  Rastrelli,  the  architect,  had  fin- 
ished at  this  time.  Like  the  royal  homes  of  France  and 
England,  it  was  modeled  after  the  renowned  and  luxuri- 
ous palaces  which  Medieval  Italy  designed  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  world  to  copy.  The  Salon  opened  into 
the  Winter  Garden  which  was  to  the  front  of  it.  In  the 
rear  stood  a  movable  stage  whose  drop  curtain  of  blue 
velvet  bore  in  black  embroidery  the  double-headed  eagle 
of  Slavic  sovereignty. 

Around  this  room,  at  regular  intervals,  were  small, 
somewhat  deeply  set,  gilt  doors;  between  the  doors  mar- 
ble statues,  and  above  the  statues  candles  which  rose  in 
clusters  forming  multiple  long,  fine,  white,  decorative 
lines.  To  the  right  and  the  left  of  the  George  Salon,  arch- 
ways led  to  invisible  promenades.  In  the  foreground,  in 
the  Winter  Garden,  there  were  symmetrically  arranged 
lemon,  orange  and  oleander  trees,  white  and  heavy  with 
flowers.  About  them  brilliantly  plumaged  tropical  birds 
fluttered.  In  the  center  a  fountain  spouted  Hungarian 
wine.  Small  ebon  black  negroes,  naked  save  for  blue 
velvet  loin  cloths,  knelt  about  the  fountain  upholding 
golden  cups  with  which  to  serve  the  guests.  The  garden 
was  fitfully  lighted  by  candles  and  flaring  torches  of  pine, 
which,  because  of  the  heavy  air,  flung  out  wavering,  spec- 
tral ribbons  of  smoke,  giving  to  the  garden  an  unreal, 

187 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

fairylike  appearance.  The  scene  recalled  at  once  the  set- 
ting of  the  garden  revelries  of  Nero  and  the  delicately 
rococo  and  gallant  fetes  of  the  reigning  Louis.  As  with 
them,  here,  too,  was  felt  the  feverish  merriment  of  a 
condition  that  was  hastening  to  the  end.  Over  it  hung 
the  wet,  brooding  silence  of  the  declining  hours  of  sub- 
Arctic  autumn.  It  was  the  last  regretful  hour  of  a  summer 
that  had  been  too  brief. 

The  Princess  Dashkov  and  Subanski  opened  the  ball 
by  dancing  a  Moldavian  czarda.  After  this  dance  the 
maskers  dispersed,  some  to  promenade  or  chat  in  groups 
in  the  George  Salon;  others  turned  toward  the  invisible 
galleries  on  either  side,  while  others,  noticeable  among 
whom  was  a  group  of  young  men,  entered  the  Winter 
Garden.  The  young  men  were  dressed  in  French  court 
costume,  their  easily  penetrated  disguise  being  the  more 
or  less  unusual  shape  of  their  silken  eye-masks.  The 
Russians  were  distinguishable  by  the  profusion  of  heavy 
gems  they  wore.  As  Subanski  joined  the  young  men,  this 
Polish  exquisite  exclaimed,  in  disgust:  ;' What  a  ridicu- 
lous dance !  It  was  not  made  for  gentlemen !  It  was 
made  for  the  hay  field!  How  i  hate  these  vulgar  peasant 
dances  !  See  —  I  am  dripping  with  perspiration !  " 

He  pulled  out  a  handkerchief  of  flowered  foulard,  one 
yard  square,  and  dried  his  face  and  wrists,  making  dis- 
play of  the  handkerchief  the  while. 

"  What  a  beautiful  handkerchief !  "  piped  up  old  Count 
Alexis  Razumovsky,  in  his  weak  and  senile  treble. 

"  Is  it  new?    Is  it  the  fashion?    Tell  me." 

"  Does  not  Subanski,  our  Polish  friend  here,"  inter-, 
rupted  a  French  spy,  "  set  the  fashion  for  Petersburg? 
If  he  carried  a  handkerchief  three  yards  square,  it  would 
be  the  thing." 

"  True,  Razumovsky." 

188 


THE  MASKED  BALL 

"  That  is  what  I  used  to  do  when  I  was  young,"  sighed 
the  decrepit  old  beau.  "  I  set  the  fashion  1  I  was  called 
then  the  Adonis  of  Russia  —  I  — " 

"This  is  the  latest  thing!  "  declared  Subanski,  boast- 
fully. "  Fresh  from  Paris.  They  are  the  rage  in  Dres- 
den and  Vienna,  too.  But  I  am  the  only  man  in  Peters- 
burg to  carry  one." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Subanski,  but  I  have  a  dozen  of 
assorted  colors,"  taking  out  a  handkerchief  of  the  same 
size,  but  adorned  with  larger  and  more  brilliant  flowers. 

"  You!  Where  did  you  get  them,  Orlov?  That  mer- 
chant shall  have  ten  lashes.  To  disgrace  me  like  this !  " 

"  Did  you  ever  know  an  Orlov  to  get  left,  Subanski  ? 
And  now,  especially." 

The  French  spies  nudged  each  other  and  whispered, 
"  See,  he  dares  to  boast!  " 

"  He  thinks  some  day  he  will  be  Emperor,"  murmured 
a  Prussian  spy  in  a  low  voice  to  his  neighbor. 

;<  Where  did  you  get  them,  Orlov?  " 

"  Count  Poniatovsky  sent  them  to  me  from  Paris  as  a 
gift." 

"  Sell  me  one,  Orlov!  "  pleaded  Alexis  Razumovsky. 
"  Just  one  —  please  !  I  will  pay  any  price.  I  will  let 
you  have  that  trained  saddle  horse  of  mine  for  the  dozen. 
Or,  I  will  give  you  those  twin  Siberian  amethysts.  Think, 
how  it  would  look  for  me,  Alexis  Razumovsky,  the  favor- 
ite of  two  Empresses,  to  carry  an  old-fashioned  handker- 
chief!" 

"  Shut  up,  old  man !  Your  time  is  past,"  observed 
Orlov,  brutally. 

With  a  pitiful  attempt  at  dignity  Razumovsky  defended 
himself:  "  The  Empress  still  lives.  And  just  so  long  as 
she  does  I  am  the  first  gentleman  of  Russia  !  " 

"  We  have  had  enough  of  that,"  continued  Orlov,  still 

189 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

brutally.     "  You  have  ruled  two  Empresses.     Some  of 
the  rest  of  us  will  take  a  turn  at  the  next  one." 

"You  will  let  we  have  one,  Subanski,  will  you  not? 
Think  how  it  would  grieve  her  Majesty  —  especially  now 
upon  her  death  bed  —  to  know  I  failed  to  carry  the  latest 
handkerchief.  I  should  weep  if  I  were  not  so  ashamed 
of  the  one  I  carry." 

"  Orlov!  "  called  Subanski,  "  if  Poniatovsky  sent  you 
the  handkerchiefs,  he  has  not  written  you  how  to  use 
them,  has  he?  That  is  very  important.  There  are  all 
kinds  of  discussion  over  it  in  Versailles." 

"  No,"  replied  the  Prussian  spy.  "  We  are  old-fash- 
ioned there.  We  are  not  much  on  display." 

"  Now  some  say  —  in  Paris,"  continued  Subanski, 
"  that  you  should  take  them  out  like  this,  by  one  corner, 
daintily  —  So !  Let  their  silken  length  float  gracefully 
upon  the  air  like  an  unfolding  banner.  So !  Then,  on  a 
sudden  —  But,  mind !  —  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  ges- 
ture gather  it  into  your  hand.  So !  And  then  softly  dust 
your  nose.  It  is  not  easy.  I  practised  two  hours  before 
I  could  do  it.  Would  you  believe  that  I  could  not  appear 
at  parade  to-day,  just  on  that  account?  " 

"  Beautiful !  Beautiful !  Is  it  not,  Gregory  Orlov?  " 
quavered  the  falsetto  of  old  Alexis  Razumovsky. 

"  But  in  Dresden  there  is  another  way." 

"Very  good  court  —  Dresden — "  murmured  the 
French  spy,  reminiscently.  "  Next  to  Petersburg  and  Ver- 
sailles." 

'  Tell  us,  Subanski.     And  slowly,  so  that  I  may  learn," 
pleaded  Alexis  Razumovsky. 

"  Now  —  there  —  in  Dresden,"  proceeded  Subanski, 
with  delight  at  being  permitted  to  inaugurate  a  fashion. 
"  There,  you  must  catch  it  exactly  by  the  center.  So ! 
(This  is  the  Donhoffs'  idea.)  Then  let  the  four  corners 

190 


THE  MASKED  BALL 

fall  softly  down  like  rose  petals.  So !  And  then,  unclasp 
your  fingers  where  you  hold  it  —  in  the  center.  See ! 
This  way!  And  display  a  diamond  snuffbox  whereon  is 
set  a  lady's  picture.  That  is  the  way  the  Donhoff  has 
made  August  the  Strong  display  his  a  dozen  times  a  day 
at  the  court  of  Dresden." 

"Beautiful!  Beautiful!  Is  it  not,  Gregory  Orlov? 
Alas,  that  I  did  not  know  how  to  do  that  for  the  blessed 
Empress !  How  it  would  have  shown  off  my  hands !  " 

"  Ah!  what  a  perfume  was  that!  "  exclaimed  the  Prus- 
sian spy,  snuffing  audibly.  "  Ah!  Ah!  " 

"Fine!  Fine!"  admitted  the  French  spy.  "What 
is  it?" 

"  You  have  been  too  long  out  of  Paris,  my  French 
friend,"  said  Subanski,  patronizingly. 

"New  —  is  it  new?  Do  you  think  that  it  is  new, 
Gregory  Orlov?  "  questioned  Alexis  Razumovsky,  with 
one  hand  behind  his  ear,  alert  as  usual  whenever  fashion 
was  under  discussion. 

"  Of  course  it  is  new!  "  declared  Subanski,  disdainfully. 
"  The  correct  perfume  is  a  matter  of  grave  importance. 
I  would  as  lief  wear  clothes  —  yes  —  a  month  old — as 
to  use  a  perfume  that  is  out  of  fashion !  This  is  the  latest 
thing.  Smell !  Smell !  All  of  you !  It  was  made  espe- 
cially for  these  foulard  handkerchiefs.  Do  you  know 
what  it  is?  I  will  bet  that  you  do  not.  Rosa  cino- 
momeaf  " 

"  You  are  wrong  again  there,  Subanski !  "  contradicted 
Orlov,  in  an  irritating  tone  of  dominance  that  had  never 
been  noticeable  in  him  before.  "  That  is  for  ladies'  lace 
handkerchiefs  only.  And  out  of  fashion  for  them  now." 

"  My  importer  assured  me,  Orlov,  that  this  is  what 
they  are  using  in  Paris." 

"  Count  Poniatovsky  wrote  me,  Subanski,  direct  from 

191 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

Paris,  that  that  went  out  at  least  ten  days  before  he  wrote. 
Now,  everyone  in  the  court  set  uses  parfum  a  la  reine. 
How  do  you  like  it?  "  taking  out  his  handkerchief  and 
passing  it  around. 

"Good!"  admitted  the  French  spy.  "The  better, 
yes  —  I  think  so  —  Yes !  Let  me  smell  again.  Yes, 
yes—" 

"  But  there  is  something  at  the  court  of  Dresden  that 
beats  them  all,"  added  the  Prussian  spy.  "  The  Donhoff 
uses  nothing  else." 

"  What  is  it?  What  is  it?  "  questioned  Subanski  and 
Razumovsky  in  a  breath. 

"  Parfum  de  la  reine  d'Hongrie!  The  Donhoff  revived 
its  use.  It  was  first  made  three  hundred  years  ago." 

"  Come,  Orlov,"  suggested  Subanski,  "  let  us  introduce 
that  into  Paris !  It  is  high  time  we  began  setting  fashions 
instead  of  following  them." 

"  Right  you  are,  Subanski !  We  will  do  it.  Paris  can- 
not refuse  us  anything.  She  lives  off  the  Russian  Court." 

"  And  the  very  best  we  can  do,  Orlov  —  not  sparing 
money  or  time  —  we  are  at  least  six  weeks  behind  Paris !  " 

"  Very  sad  —  yes,  indeed !  Is  it  not,  Gregory  Or- 
lov? "  complained  the  faded  beau. 

"  Better  be  in  Prussia  than  out  of  the  fash- 
ion!" laughed  Gregory  Orlov,  with  that  new  note  of 
scorn  ringing  in  his  voice.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,"  bowing 
to  the  Prussian  spy.  "  That  is  a  sort  of  complimentary 
jest  that  we  have  here  in  Russia." 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  told  me.  I  have  never  been  able 
to  understand  Russian  jests,"  retorted  the  spy. 

'  You  ought  to  go  to  England,  my  good  Prussian," 
said  Gregory  Orlov,  in  that  condescending  voice  he  was 
learning  so  rapidly  to  use.  "  They  are  famous  for  jests 
there.  They  are  the  kind  that  you  would  understand." 

192 


THE  MASKED  BALL 

The  French  spy  was  becoming  nervous,  and  he  hastened 
to  turn  the  conversation  to  another  question  of  dress  which 
was  sure  to  find  favor  with  these  frivolous  Sybarites  of  the 
north. 

"  Orlov,  what  do  you  say  is  the  proper  lace  for  a  gen- 
tleman to  wear,  point  d'alenqon,  or  point  de  champagne?  " 

"  Point  d'alenqon  —  decidedly.  It  is  thinner.  It  falls 
over  the  hands  better.  It  shows  off  rings  brilliantly,  as  if 
through  a  veil  of  mist." 

He  held  up  his  own  hand  to  illustrate.  Upon  it  were 
rings  with  jingling,  pendant  gems. 

'  Yet,  Orlov,"  objected  Subanski,  "  if  a  man  has  a  good 
wrist  —  round,  white, — well  turned  —  point  de  cham- 
pagne, turned  back,  is  becoming;  shows  it  off  as,  pour 
exemple,  on  my  wrist." 

"  Yes,  or  mine,  Subanski.  See !  "  insisted  Razumovsky, 
holding  up  a  wrinkled  trembling  hand. 

"  Our  friend  Razumovsky,  Subanski,  would  insist  upon 
playing  Adonis  if  he  were  a  hundred." 

"  If  there  are  two  kinds  of  perfume,  Orlov,  there  is 
only  one  kind  of  hat  for  a  gentleman  to  wear.  My  impor- 
ter just  told  me.  The  three-cornered  felt  has  completely 
supplanted  the  black  wax-cloth!  " 

Razumovsky  put  his  hand  to  his  deaf  ear  excitedly. 

"  What  —  What?  Did  he  say  something  about  clothes, 
Gregory  Orlov?  " 

"  Do  not  worry,  Razumovsky.  Do  not  worry,"  advised 
Subanski.  "  You  will  soon  be  too  old  to  wear  clothes." 

"  You  cannot  guess,  Subanski,  what  a  rich  thing  Ponia- 
tovsky  wrote  me  when  he  sent  the  handkerchiefs.  True, 
too !  Every  bit  of  it !  I  think  that  it  sjiows  a  good  deal 
of  penetration  on  his  part.  He  said  the  very  instant  you 
cross  the  Russian  frontier  you  can  tell  which  party  is  in 
power  at  court  by  the  card  games  the  soldiers  play.  What 

193 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

do  you  think  of  that,  Subanski?  I  call  that  clever,  do 
not  you  ?  You  know  that  he  is  always  running  back  and 
forth  between  Paris,  Warsaw  and  Petersburg." 

"  And  he  has  been  running  somewhat  faster  of  late 
than  usual,  has  he  not?  "  put  in  the  Prussian,  insolently. 
Orlov  seemingly  was  deaf  to  this  allusion  to  the  Grand 
Duchess,  and  continued  with  undisturbed  serenity. 

"  In  the  days  of  Anna  Leopoldovna,  and  during  the 
youth  and  health  of  our  blessed  Empress,  Elizabeth 
Petrovna,  when  Russia  was  being  Frenchified,  everyone 
played  La  Mouche.  It  did  not  make  any  difference  in 
what  remote  place  the  soldiers  were  garrisoned;  in  the 
Ural,  in  the  Caucasus,  or  by  the  sea  of  Azov.  They  all 
played  La  Mouche.  This  proves  how  far  reaching  is  the 
influence  of  the  court.  It  is  like  the  rain  —  or  God's 
blessing  —  it  falls  evenly  over  Russia.  Now,  since  her 
Majesty  is  old  and  ill,  and  the  Grand  Duke  Peter,  who 
is  Prussian  to  the  core,  is  gaining  the  upper  hand,  they 
play  Kampis." 

"  Disgusting  game  —  that,"  sighed  Subanski,  reminis- 
cently.  "  Holstein  game, —  fit  only  for  Holstein  stable 
boys.  Ugh !  But  if  the  Grand  Duchess  comes  into  power, 
then  there  will  be  a  gay  change  of  games  for  you.  Then, 
they  will  play  biribis." 

"What  kind  of  game  is  that?"  questioned  the  Prus- 
sian. 

"  Russian,  my  good  friend!     Russian!  " 

"  How  can  that  be?"  insisted  the  spy.  "  She  is  not 
Russian." 

"  You  will  see !  You  will  see !  "  boasted  Subanski. 
"  And  we  will  not  speak  a  bad  mixture  of  French  and 
German  then  as  we  do  now.  We  will  speak  Russian  — 
pure  Russian." 

194 


THE  MASKED  BALL 

"  Do  you  not  think  it  will  be  bad  for  the  Grand  Duke's 
tongue?  "  queried  the  Prussian,  insolently. 

"  Not  half  so  bad,  my  good  Prussian,  as  for  his  head," 
retorted  the  witty  Pole. 

"  You  dare  — " 

"  A  jest,  Sir!  A  Russian  jest,  which  you  say  that  you 
are  unable  to  understand." 

The  Prussian  spy  had  had  enough  of  this  subject  and 
inquired  suavely: 

'  Which  is  the  Grand  Duchess?    Point  her  out  to  me-." 

Gregory  Orlov  hastened  to  make  reply,  "  The  slender 
figure  —  there  —  in  the  black  domino." 

'  The  black  domino?  "  echoed  the  quavering  voice  of 
Razumovsky.  "  Handsome  woman !  But  not  the  equal 
of  Elizabeth  Petrovna  at  her  age.  You  should  have  seen 
her !  She  was  the  handsomest  woman  in  Europe.  And 
I  —  I  was  not  — " 

"  Introduce  me,"  begged  the  Prussian  spy. 

"  An  introduction  is  not  necessary  until  after  the  mask- 
ing," explained  Orlov,  with  suspicious  haste. 

"  Go  up  and  ask  her  for  a  dance." 

"  I  am  more  eager  to  see  her  face  than  anything  else !  " 
broke  in  the  French  spy.  "  Then,  I  can  judge  if  the 
things  they  say  of  her  are  true." 

"  What  things?  "  inquired  Subanski  with  feigned  inno- 
cence. 

"  Oh !  those  fairy  tales  that  are  going  the  round  of  the 
courts,"  explained  the  Prussian. 

"  What  does  he  mean,  Orlov?  " 

Orlov  shook  his  head  and  toyed  indifferently  with  his 
pendant  rings. 

The  French  spy  was  so  interested  in  the  subject  that  he 
could  not  refrain  from  pursuing  it. 

195 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

1  They  say  —  at  the  other  courts  —  that  she  is  as 
dangerous  and  as  diplomatic  as  that  old  snake  Bestushev- 
Rjumin;  that  she  has  completely  fooled  the  Grand  Duke, 
who  really  believes  that  she  is  not  ambitious,  and  that 
she  cares  only  for  the  church,  and  her  books." 

'  What  do  you  say  to  that,  Gregory  Orlov?  "  piped  up 
the  senile  treble  of  Razumovsky. 

"  Nothing  at  all,  Razumovsky." 

"  Good  for  you,  Gregory  Orlov !  That  is  the  pace  I 
set !  When  they  came  to  me  a  few  days  ago  thinking  that 
the  blessed  Empress  was  dying  and  asked  me  if  I  had  not 
been  married  to  her  secretly,  if  I  did  not  have  a  marriage 
contract  —  some  document  of  the  kind,  I  replied,  '  I  have 
never  been  anything  to  the  blessed  Empress  but  a  humble 
servant.'  Then  I  got  up  —  right  while  they  were  watch- 
ing me  —  and  took  a  written  document  she  gave  me  long 
ago,  and  walked  across  the  room  and  placed  it  upon  the 
burning  logs  of  the  grate.  You  know  that  even  in  summer 
I  am  so  cold  that  I  have  to  have  a  fire."  He  paused  for  a 
moment,  saddened  by  the  splendor  of  memories  that  could 
never  be  renewed. 

For  that  moment  some  of  the  former  beauty  that  had 
made  him  famous  flashed  from  his  faded,  weary  face. 

*  You  see  I  am  old.    I  may  not  live  long." 

u  But  I  would  like  to  recall  to  you,"  said  the  Prussian, 
sharply,  annoyed  at  the  old  man's  interruption,  "  that  the 
Grand  Duchess  is  Prussian." 

"  Even  in  Prussia,  my  good  fellow,  one  berry  is  not 
always  just  like  another,"  retorted  Subanski,  with  Polish 
wit. 

"  It  is  possible,  Subanski,  that  you  do  not  know  the 
things  they  say  of  her  in  Dresden,  Vienna,  and  at  my  own 
court,  Versailles,"  explained  the  French  spy,  hastening  to 
take  the  other's  part. 

196 


THE  MASKED  BALL 

"  They  say  that  for  his  own  evil  ends  your  Russian 
Richelieu  has  made  a  strange  woman  out  of  her;  that  his 
black  magic  has  taught  her  how  to  be  two  women  in  one, 
a  woman  of  the  heart  and  a  woman  of  the  head,  who  led 
two  separate  lives.  He  has  taught  her  how  to  divide  her 
life  into  parts  which  have  no  connection  with  each  other; 
one  for  love  and  self-gratification ;  and  one  for  power  and 
fame." 

He  looked  attentively  at  his  listeners  to  learn  the  effect 
of  his  words  before  continuing: 

"  Just  the  very  day  I  left  Paris  I  read  a  letter  from  the 
Due  de  Broglie,  who  is  in  Warsaw  now,  but  who  had 
known  her  in  Petersburg.  He  admired  her.  And  at  the 
same  time  he  feared  her.  He  wrote  not  long  ago.  These 
are  his  very  words :  '  She  is  the  most  marvelous  woman 
in  Russia  and  one  of  the  most  beautiful.  God  has  given 
her  graces  both  of  body  and  mind.  But  at  the  same  time 
she  is  dangerous  and  not  to  be  trusted.  She  is  cold 
blooded.  She  is  hard.  She  has  a  soul  as  unyielding  as 
adamant.  And  —  strangest  of  contrasts  —  a  tempera- 
ment of  fire.  She  unites  the  grace,  the  nobility  of  a  verita- 
ble queen  of  romance  with  the  morals  of  a  market  woman. 
She  is  equally  at  her  ease  parrying  verbal  thrusts  with  Vol- 
taire, discussing  questions  of  state  with  Frederick  the 
Great,  leading  a  squadron,  or  taking  part  in  an  orgie  that 
would  dazzle  a  Caesar.'  But  there  is  no  chance  for  any- 
one —  be  he  never  so  handsome  — "  glancing  maliciously 
at  Orlov,  who  was  listening  with  weary  indiffer- 
ence, "  because  the  best  of  her  belongs  to  Count  Bestu- 
shev-Rjumin.  Yes,  old  as  he  is  —  to  that  ghost  of  a 
man." 

The  mental  attitude  of  Orlov  changed. 

"  He  said  that,  did  he?  "  replied  Orlov,  in  a  voice  that 

197 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

resembled  the  temper  of  steel,  while  for  a  moment  his 
.pendant  gems  stopped  their  quivering  play. 

"  Yes,  he  said  that  —  and  more  I  " 

"  I'd  give  my  head  to  see  her !  "  declared  the  French 
spy. 

'Wait!  Wait!"  admonished  the  scornful  Pole. 
"  You  need  not  be  in  such  a  hurry.  If  the  blessed  Em- 
press dies  to-night  and  the  Grand  Duchess  comes  into 
power,  many  of  you  foreign  spies  will  have  a  chance  to 
give  your  heads  to  her." 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on,  the  Black  Dom- 
ino and  the  Daschkov,  in  the  costume  of  a  Moldavian 
peasant,  entered  the  Garden  and  paused  by  the  fountain 
where  they  remained  talking  earnestly. 

From  the  invisible  galleries  on  either  side  of  the  George 
Salon,  two  heralds  entered  carrying  small,  gilt  trumpets 
wreathed  with  flowers.  They  advanced  to  the  center  of 
the  George  Salon  and  then  marched  side  by  side  into  the 
Winter  Garden  where  they  announced : 

"  Choose  your  partners  for  Leo  Narishkin's  '  Grand- 
father's Dance  ! '  Choose  your  partners !  " 

The  coterie  of  young  men  separated,  the  Russians  going 
into  the  George  Salon.  The  Prussian  spy  took  advantage 
of  the  opportunity  to  address  the  Black  Domino,  "  May 
I  have  the  pleasure  of  this  dance?  " 

"  I  am  tired.    I  prefer  to  rest." 
'Then  may  I    rest    beside    you?"     The    Domino 
assented. 

The  French  spy  addressed  the  Moldavian  peasant, 
"  And  you  —  will  you  not  dance  with  me?  " 

"  I,  too,  am  tired.  That  czarda  exhausted  me.  Let 
us  stand  here  by  the  Salon  and  watch  the  others." 

They  moved  away  toward  the  George  Salon  and 
paused  by  the  entrance.  The  Black  Domino  and  the  Prus- 

198 


THE  MASKED  BALL 

sian  spy  walked  along  under  the  flowering  trees  to  the 
front  of  the  garden  where  soon  their  figures  were  shel- 
tered from  the  general  view. 

Leo  Narishkin,  out  of  enthusiasm  for  the  dance  which 
he  invented  and  which  bore  his  name,  took  off  his  mask 
and  stood  near  the  entrance  of  the  garden,  calling  off 
merrily  the  order  of  the  dance  in  imitation  of  peasant 
fashion. 

"  Have  I  the  honor  to  address  the  Grand  Duchess  of 
Russia  ?  "  ventured  the  Prussian  spy,  under  the  fragrant 
shelter  of  an  orange  tree. 

"  Does  not  a  question  of  that  kind  infringe  upon  the 
rules  of  the  game  ?  " 

"  If  it  does  it  is  to  play,  perhaps,  a  greater  game." 

"  But  it  takes  two  to  play  a  game,  does  it  not?  I  may 
not  wish  to  play." 

'  We  have  not  time  to  waste  the  night  in  parleying.  It 
is  imperative  that  I  know." 

"Imperative!     Why?" 

"  I  have  a  message  to  deliver  —  a  verbal  message  to 
her  alone." 

"  I  am  listening." 

'  Then  that  means  that  you  are  the  Grand  Duchess  of 
Russia,  does  it  not?  " 

"  Did  I  not  say  that  I  listened?  " 

"  But  that  may  be  an  evasion.  I  cannot  trust  to  doubt- 
ful evidence.  The  cause  is  too  urgent.  Give  me  proof." 

The  Domino  turned  back  the  glove  and  showed  the 
ring. 

"  Is  not  this  proof?     See  —  the  crest!  " 
'  Yes  —  that  is  proof  of  a  certain  kind.     But  I  must 
be  sure.     Lift  your  mask  for  the  space  of  an  instant." 

*  That  I  may  not  do." 

"  We  are  hidden  by  the  trees.    No  one  could  see.    Lift 

199 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

your  mask  just  a  little !  I  dare  not  risk  the  possibility  of 
a  mistake." 

"  Have  I  not  told  you  that  that  I  may  not  do?  " 

Leo  Narishkin's  voice  sang  merrily  and  clearly. 

'  Tournez  a  gauche!     Tournez  a  droite!  " 

"Parole  d'honneur,  your  Royal  Highness?"  ques- 
tioned the  spy,  seeing  that  further  insistence  was  use- 
less. 

" Parole  d'honneur"  replied  an  even  voice,  whose  tone 
was  covered  by  the  music  of  the  dance. 

"  First,  I  am  instructed  by  my  royal  master  to  extend 
to  you  his  sympathy  in  the  present  strained  relations  that 
are  known  to  exist  between  yourself  and  her  Majesty,  and 
between  yourself  and  the  Grand  Duke." 

He  wishes,  thought  Nicholas  Murievich  quickly,  to 
impress  upon  me,  first  his  understanding  of  the  insecurity 
of  my  position,  and  secondly  my  need  of  help. 

"  You  are  a  Prussian.  Therefore,  he  sympathizes 
with—" 

'  There  you  are  wrong.  And  so  is  your  royal  master. 
I  am  the  very  best  Russian  of  them  all." 

Leo  Narishkin  sang  gayly,  enjoying  the  popularity  of 
the  dance  he  designed. 

"  Balancez!    Balancez!  " 

"  And,  further,  my  royal  master  wishes  me  to  express 
to  you  his  surprise  —  more,  his  grief, —  that  in  the  pres- 
ent war  you  should  have  written  to  General  Aprakin: 
1  Go  on !  Teach  Frederick  the  Great  a  lesson !  Confine 
him  within  his  old  boundaries.'  That  is  not  patriotic. 
That  is  not  grateful." 

"How  could  he  expect  anything  else?" 

"  But,  your  Royal  Highness,  who  can  look  with  pleas- 
ure upon  the  destruction  of  his  home?  " 

'  You  must  remember  that  I  am  now  a  Russian  —  the 

200 


THE  MASKED  BALL 

Crown  Princess  of  all  the  Russias.  I  did  as  I  shall  do 
again." 

"Wait!  Wait!  Do  not  say  that!"  exclaimed  the 
spy,  in  a  voice  in  which  anger  was  audible. 

"  But  before  you  were  the  Crown  Princess  of  Russia, 
do  you  know  who  you  were?  You  do  not!  If  you  did, 
you  would  not  be  so  foolish.  Yes  —  foolish!  You  will 
never  wear  the  crown  unless  you  change  your  present 
attitude.  You  are  the  natural  daughter  of  Frederick  the 
Great!" 

This  statement,  which  Nicholas  Murievich  sensed  at 
once  to  be  the  fateful  secret,  came  like  a  stroke  of  the 
lightning,  laming  and  disorganizing  his  mind. 

"It  is  your  own  father,  your  own  country  which  you 
help  to  destroy.  With  you  as  with  other  people,  blood 
must  be  thicker  than  water.  In  the  depths  of  the  heart 
there  must  be  love  for  one's  own.  Beyond  personal  aims, 
there  is  duty  to  humanity  and  a  more  intelligent  living. 
What  is  the  crown  of  this  barbarous  Russia  in  comparison 
with  the  crown  of  that  country  where  you  were  born? 
And  there  —  if  you  should  return,  there  is  no  telling  what 
power  might  —  in  time  —  be  yours." 

"  But  I  am  not  so  easily  convinced,  my  good  Prussian. 
I  must  have  proofs,"  replied  Nicholas  Murievich,  in  a 
voice  that  trembled  slightly  and  whose  trembling  was  not 
lost  upon  the  subtle  spy. 

"  I  must  have  proofs !  " 

"  I  will  give  them,  your  Royal  Highness  —  but,  on 
conditions.  They  are  worth  purchasing.  They  are  great 
enough,  important  enough.  The  first  condition  is  that  you 
use  your  influence  with  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin  to-night 
to  call  off  the  army  which  is  encamped  by  Berlin.  The  ef- 
fort need  not  be  known.  Your  quick  wits  can  find  ways 
that  will  not  lead  to  discovery.  You  can  have  a  secret 

201 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

courier  set  out  for  there  at  once.  Secondly,  if  the  Em- 
press dies  and  the  Grand  Duke,  your  husband,  reigns  even 
for  a  day  — " 

Here  the  spy's  voice  dropped  to  an  irritating  whisper 
and  he  looked  at  his  vis-a-vis  cunningly,  a  leer  upon  his 
smooth  and  evil  face. 

"  He  is  ill,  is  he  not?    He  cannot  live  long?  " 

'Yes,— he  is  ill— " 

"  Is  he  in  your  opinion  very  ill?  " 

"  I  have  no  opinion." 

4  That  is  what  they  say,  is  it  not,  your  Royal  High- 
ness?" 

"  It  is." 

"  Very  well,  then.  One  of  the  important  conditions  is 
that,  should  you  come  to  the  throne,  you  will  depose  Count 
Bestushev-Rjumin  and  give  up  new  Russia." 

"  I  am  not  to  be  dictated  to." 

'  Very  well.    These  are  the  conditions." 

"  But  time  does  many  things.  Give  me  time,"  parried 
Nicholas  Murievich,  hoping  that  in  some  way  which  he 
could  not  think  out  just  now,  he  could  send  the  news  to 
Catherine  Alexevna. 

"Time?" 

"  To  consider." 

11 1  must  have  my  answer  to-night." 

"  Very  well.  Have  it  so,  then,"  was  the  reply,  catch- 
ing at  a  possible  expedient  of  thought. 

"  I  will  give  my  answer  to  your  king,  to  you  and  to  all 
Russia  —  to-night,  in  the  tableau  in  which  I  take  part  at 
the  close  of  the  ball.  Now  give  me  your  proofs." 

"  But  how  do  I  know  that  your  answer  will  be  favor- 
able to  me  and  to  my  cause?  How  can  I  give  you  the 
proofs?  " 

"  If  you  do  not  give  them  to  me,  they  may  be  valueless 

202 


THE  MASKED  BALL 

after  to-night.     If  you  do  give  them  to  me  and  they 
are  what  you  say  they  are,  there  is,  at  least,  a  possibility 
of  success  for  you.    You  ought  to  be  able  to  rely  upon  their 
power.    I,  at  least,  can  agree  to  no  other  conditions." 
"  Is  that  fair?    The  advantage  is  all  with  you." 
"  The  advantage  is  always  with  the  person  who  is 
strong  enough  to  take  it.    You,  of  course,  know  what  the 
proofs  are.    You  are  the  only  one  who  can  estimate  their 
power.     At  least  —  you  ought  to  be  able  to  estimate 
them." 

"  I  can !  Here  are  some  of  them.  But  this  is  no  place 
to  display  written  documents  of  great  importance.  To 
do  so  would  be  to  attract  attention.  We  must  go  else- 
where. What  do  you  say  to  going  on  to  the  Dresden 
Woman's?  There  would  not  be  many  there  to-night. 
The  court  set  are  here.  Now  here  is  a  letter  written  by 
Frederick  the  Great  to  your  mother.  But  read  this  pas- 
sage in  this  other  letter  first,  *  You  know  I  have  always 
wanted  to  arrange  a  brilliant  marriage  for  your  daughter.' 
Does  your  Royal  Highness  know  that  he  put  aside  his 
own  sister  to  make  you  the  Empress  of  Russia  ?  Do  you 
suppose  that  he  would  have  done  that,  if  you  had  not  been 
nearer  and  dearer  to  him?  He  helped  defray  your 
expenses  and  your  mother's  on  that  first  memorable  jour- 
ney to  Russia  —  out  of  his  own  pocket.  You  know  what 
that  means  to  a  man  as  miserly  as  he.  He  took  all  the 
pains  in  the  world  to  protect  you  on  that  journey,  from 
wolves  and  from  bandits.  He  sent  his  couriers  ahead  to 
make  the  way  safe.  Your  mother  was  visiting  in  the 
neighborhood  of  his  father's  castle,  when  he  was  just  a 
boy.  She  was  with  him  every  day.  It  was  to  her  that  he 
told  the  story  of  his  stern  father's  hard  dealing  with  him- 
self, and  arrogant  ways.  Then,  unexpectedly,  came  com- 
mand for  your  mother  to  marry  the  Prince  of  Anhalt,  a 

203 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

man  years  her  senior.  She  complied  with  the  command. 
In  a  few  months  you  were  born,  and  you  were  named 
Sophie  Friedericka.  The  instant  Frederick  became  king 
he  loaded  your  father  with  unmerited  honors,  advanced 
him  from  one  command  in  the  army  to  another.  And  for 
no  apparent  reason  whatever,  because  he  did  not  possess 
ability  in  military  affairs. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  what  Frederick  the  Great  said  to 
the  Prince  de  Ligne  one  day  in  speaking  of  your  brother 

—  who  is  evidently  your  real  brother  —  ?    This  is  what 
he  said :     '  I  believe  that  it  is  sometimes  necessary  to  cross 
les  races  en  empire.    I  adore  the  children  of  love !    Look 
at  the  Marechal  de  Saxe  —  and  my  Anhalt,  a  man  full 
of  talent.'    Just  the  other  day  —  before  I  left  Prussia  — 
he  wrote  about  your  Royal  Highness,  '  Surely  a  Grand 
Duchess  of  Russia,  raised  and  educated  in  the  Prussian 
land  and  owing  to  its  sovereign  all  her  future,  must  be 
upon  the  Prussian  side.' ' 

Leo  Narishkin's  merry  voice  rose  above  the  music, 
and  the  rhythm  of  the  dancing  feet,  calling  out :  "  Chaine 

—  Chaine  —  Tournez  a  gauche!     Tournez  a  droite!  " 

"  And  I  have  other  proofs  which  I  can  show  you : 
stories  of  your  mother's  youth  and  her  love  affair  with 
Frederick  of  Prussia  when  he  was  not  yet  king,  and  his 
father  was  living.  I  can  tell  you  details  of  her  forced 
and  hurried  marriage  to  the  man  upon  whom  the  present 
king  heaped  so  many  unmerited  honors.  Your  mother 
was  little  more  than  a  child.  She  was  barely  fifteen. 
I  can  tell  you  how  the  king  instructed  his  diplomats  not 
to  spare  gold  to  bribe  the  diplomats  of  other  nations 
to  use  their  influence  in  selecting  you  for  the  Russian  mar- 
riage. Surely,  you  cannot  be  ungrateful  now  that  you 
know.  Surely  you  cannot  strike  the  hand  that  created 
you!" 

204 


THE  MASKED  BALL 

Nicholas  Murievich  was  overwhelmed  with  the  dis- 
closure. It  drove  from  his  mind  the  warning  of  the 
Grand  Duchess,  and  the  multiform  dangers  of  the  fateful 
night.  Of  such  a  disclosure  he  had  not  dreamed.  What 
would  the  result  be  when  it  was  made  known  to  Catherine 
Alexevna?  Who  could  estimate  its  effect  upon  her? 
Would  it  be  the  death  blow  to  his  own  hopes?  Would 
it  make  her  forget  her  dream  of  conquering  the  south? 
Would  the  result  be  the  making  of  a  union  in  the  future 
between  Russia  and  Prussia?  Would  it  put  an  end  to 
his  hope  of  a  free  Greece?  Would  the  result  be  that 
Russia  would  make  no  more  plans  for  the  south,  and 
would  he  be  obliged  to  give  up  his  ambition  of  being 
humbly  instrumental  in  wresting  Greece  from  Turkey,  and 
in  restoring  the  glory  which  was  the  desire  of  his  race? 
And  yet,  perhaps,  it  was  not  true.  Ah  —  blessed 
thought!  Perhaps  it  was  not  true!  But  he  must  find 
out.  He  must  find  out  everything  that  it  was  possible 
to  find  out,  before  the  secret  reached  the  ears  of  Cather- 
ine Alexevna.  It  was  ridiculous  —  improbable.  And 
yet  he  must  learn  all  there  was  to  learn  about  it  and  be 
able  to  combat  it  at  every  turn.  It  did  not  occur  to 
him  to  connect  this  story  with  the  plot  he  had  caught 
wind  of  against  the  Grand  Duchess  and  himself,  and  of 
which  he  had  warned  her.  He  had  never  seen  the  game 
of  politics  played  at  close  quarters  as  the  great  play  it, 
where  death  is  the  potent  joker.  His  heart  was  filled 
with  the  pleasant  dream  of  doing  something  great  for 
her. 

"  We  are  attracting  attention,  your  R'oyal  Highness." 
The  suave,  insinuating  voice  of  the  spy  interrupted  his 
thinking.  "  Can  we  not  leave  the  ball  for  a  little  while, 
that  I  may  have  a  better  opportunity  to  show  you  the 

205 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

proofs?  I  have  important  documents  and  letters  to  put 
before  you." 

The  surprise  of  the  communication  had  erased  from 
the  mind  of  Nicholas  Murievich  the  command  of  Cath- 
erine Alexevna  on  no  account  to  leave  the  ball  until  she 
returned. 

"  Can  we  not  go  to  some  place  where  we  can  have  more 
freedom  and  not  fear  inquisitive  eyes?" 

1  Yes,  I  think  so." 

"  Then  let  us  go  straight  to  the  Dresden  Woman's. 
It  is  near.  We  can  be  back  within  the  hour.  There 
will  not  be  a  crowd  there  to-night.  We  can  be  by  our- 
selves. Let  us  join  the  dance  and  slip  out  by  one  of  the 
little  gilt  doors  beside  the  stage  —  in  the  rear  of  the 
George  Salon." 

They  waited  until  the  dance  again  assumed  the  form  of 
a  grand  march,  when  they  slipped  in.  In  the  grand  right 
and  left  or  the  "  chaine  "  that  followed,  they  danced 
until  they  reached  the  rear  of  the  room,  where  the  uniform 
gilt  doors  were,  when  they  disappeared  without  causing 
comment. 

After  they  had  crossed  the  hall  outside  they  could  still 
hear  the  music,  and  the  merry  voice  of  Leo  Narishkin 
singing  vigorously:  "  Tournez  a  gauche!  Tournez  a 
droite!  Balancezf  Balancez!  Chaine  —  Chaine  — " 
With  Nicholas  Murievich  it  was  tournez  a  gauche  for- 
ever, and  the  road  led  out  of  life.  He  never  reached 
the  Dresden  Woman's.  The  plot,  which  had  been  form- 
ing for  weeks  against  the  life  of  the  Grand  Duchess, 
broke  over  him.  They  hurried  him  into  a  closed  car- 
riage where  he  was  bound  and  gagged.  The  driver  took 
the  river  road  that  led  to  the  Gulf  of  Finland  by  Oranien- 
baum.  Not  many  hours  later  the  dead  body  of  Nicholas 

206 


THE  MASKED  BALL 

Murievich  lay  just  where  Maschuta's  had  lain  the  night 
before. 

The  Prussian  spy,  who  committed  the  crime,  was  rowed 
out  to  a  black  ship  that  was  waiting  sullenly  in  the  misty 
darkness  to  bear  back  to  the  protection  of  Prussia  the 
trusted  servant  who  had  been  successful  in  putting  an 
end  to  that  Russian  princess  who  had  thwarted  the  plans 
of  Frederick  the  King.  As  for  the  Russian  driver,  he 
bore  back  to  Petersburg  enough  Prussian  gold  to  buy  for 
himself  a  meierhof  amid  the  rich  meadows  of  the  Don. 

In  the  meanwhile,  at  the  ball,  just  as  Leo  Narishkin's 
"  Grandfather's  Dance  "  was  ending  with  a  flourish  of 
noise  and  laughter,  one  of  the  gilt  doors  in  the  rear  of 
the  George  Salon  opened  and  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin, 
unmasked,  appeared.  He  looked  exceedingly  tall  as  he 
entered,  stooped  of  shoulder,  and  thin  and  fragile  to  a 
degree  to  excite  wonderment.  But  his  look  belied  his 
spirit.  He  was  in  great  good  humor.  The  inspired 
light  of  victory  was  upon  his  face.  He  had  just  dem- 
onstrated his  strategical  superiority.  He  had  set  in  mo- 
tion one  of  his  far  reaching  and  cruel  plans  which  he 
knew  had  succeeded.  Like  a  scattered  skyrocket,  it  had 
burst  and  its  dropping,  golden  sparks  had  dealt  death 
to  those  whom  he  desired  to  die.  In  addition  to  being 
successful,  the  plan  had  been  artistic.  And  no  one  could 
connect  him  with  it !  At  the  same  time  he  had  played  a 
gay  trick  upon  his  enemy,  Frederick  of  Prussia.  It  was 
the  thought  of  Frederick  in  particular  that  lighted  the 
fire  of  joy  and  triumph  in  his  sunken  eyes. 

"  In  a  well  planned,  diplomatically  managed  disappear- 
ance," he  was  meditating  pleasantly  as  he  entered  among 
the  youthful  merrymakers,  "  there  should  be  humor  and 
some  of  the  heightening  accessories  of  art."  No  one 

207 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

would  have  regretted  a  vulgar  and  inartistic  disappear- 
ance of  an  enemy  more  than  he.  Anyone  could  succeed 
awkwardly.  But  not  everyone  could  succeed  gracefully, 
with  opposing  obstacles  reduced  to  invisibility.  Not 
everyone  could  wrap  crime  within  the  glory  of  genius. 

"  And  what  a  splendid  joke  on  Frederick  of  Prussia  — 
to  have  abducted  the  wrong  person !  The  poorest  crea- 
ture who  had  been  trained  under  me  would  not  have 
blundered  like  that.  When  Frederick  finds  out  what  has 
happened,  he  will  know  who  has  done  it.  He  will  rec- 
ognize my  handiwork.  He  has  seen  it  before.  It  may 
occur  to  him  to  compare  it  with  the  lightning, —  coming 
swiftly  and  he  knows  not  whence.  I  think  that  I  remem- 
ber that  he  compared  me  once  with  the  subterranean 
forger  of  fire  —  but  less  politely. .  One  of  the  faults  of 
Frederick  is,"  he  meditated,  "  that  he  lacks  humor.  He 
forgets  the  joy  of  the  situation  in  the  black  anger  of  his 
heart.  There  is  nothing  that  can  succeed  without  joy 
—  not  even  crime.  Frederick  has  never  been  able  to 
jest  with  death. 

"  Well,  Murievich  is  out  of  the  way.  He  had  a  good 
time  here  in  Russia  while  he  lived  —  grew  several  crops 
of  fond  and  pleasant  delusions.  People  who  devote 
themselves  exclusively  to  farming  delusions  seldom  live 
long.  There  is  something  about  that  crop  that  interferes 
with  length  of  days.  Well,  well  —  He  had  a  good 
time  in  Russia!  I  let  him  have  it.  He  was  a  toy  with 
which  to  amuse  her  Highness.  Love  is  a  pleasant  toy 
with  which  to  amuse  a  woman.  He  owes  me  gratitude 
for  having  lived  so  long.  If  he  had  happened  to  have 
planted  a  few  facts  among  his  follie*s,  I  should  have  let 
him  live  on  —  I  think  — 

"  Maschuta  is  comfortably  disposed  of,  too,  which 
leaves  Orlov  free  for  my  use.  And  my  good  friend 

208 


THE  MASKED  BALL 

Frederick,  over  the  border,  will  rest  and  relax  that  in- 
quisitive mind  of  his  just  as  soon  as  the  spy  tells  him  that 
the  Grand  Duchess  is  dead. 

"  How  very  comfortable  and  happy  he  will  be,  while 
I  send  my  armies  to  storm  the  walls  of  Berlin !  " 

It  was  no  wonder  that  the  "  Russian  Fox  "  showed  his 
grinning  teeth.  To-night  one  saw  more  clearly  than 
usual  his  lack  of  resemblance  to  the  Slavic  race.  One 
saw  his  English  blood.  There  was  nothing  of  the  "  stock 
Russian  "  evident.  Genius  and  cosmopolitan  living  had 
removed  every  trace  of  nationality. 

The  discerning  eye  of  the  Great  Peter  found  this  dip- 
lomatic genius,  took  him  from  the  masses  and  educated 
him.  He  was  fifteen  when  his  royal  patron  sent  him  to 
Europe  to  be  trained  into  a  government  servant.  He 
wandered  through  north  European  cities :  Utrecht,  Han- 
over, London,  Hamburg,  the  Hague,  Copenhagen.  He 
spoke  French,  German,  Latin,  English,  Russian.  In 
Copenhagen  he  had  compounded  his  "  Elixir  of  Life," 
sometimes  called  "  Bestushev's  Drops,"  which  was  in 
use  throughout  the  continent.  When  George  I  was  made 
King  of  England,  it  was  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin  whom 
that  monarch  sent  to  announce  his  coronation  to  Peters- 
burg. He  would  have  preferred  the  medical  to  the 
diplomatic  profession.  It  was  necessity  that  made  him 
master  of  intrigue  instead  of  a  master  of  science. 

Even  when  Elizabeth,  the  Empress,  was  present  the 
cringing  courtiers  did  reverence  to  the  Great  Chancellor 
just  as  if  he  had  been  her  superior  in  rank.  Yet  there 
was  not  one  of  them  all  who  liked  him.  They  hated  him. 
They  feared  him.  At  the  same  time,  they  were  proud 
of  him.  And  he  looked  down  upon  them  all  with  a 
measureless  contempt  for  their  weakness  or  their  inabil- 
ity. To-night,  as  he  entered  the  George  Salon,  he  pre- 
209 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

sented  a  picture  fit  for  the  cold,  thin,  eloquent  brush  of 
Goya.  What  a  pity  that  Goya  could  not  have  painted 
him !  All  the  courts  of  Europe  had  helped  to  make  this 
man  of  impressive  power.  He  had  stolen  their  worldly 
finish,  their  wisdom,  their  diplomatic  ease. 

In  the  wandering  days  of  his  youth  the  cultivation  of 
the  continent  had  touched  him.  It  had  left  upon  him  its 
power  and  its  richness  of  learning. 

Dressed  uniformly  in  black,  without  the  brightening  of 
white  ruffles,  he  was  sharply  contrasted  with  the  maskers. 
His  only  ornament  was  a  diamond  framed  medallion 
portrait  of  Peter  the  Great  suspended  from  his  neck  by 
a  chain  of  jet.  His  hands  were  so  remarkable  that  they 
could  not  escape  notice.  They  were  beautiful  and  aristo- 
cratic, and  so  thin  that  they  were  wellnigh  transparent. 
But  they  were  hands  better  suited  to  commands  of  cruelty 
than  to  caresses  or  kindness.  In  conversation  they  were 
as  eloquent  as  his  tongue. 

His  face  was  refined  and  alert,  and  moulded  sensi- 
tively by  thought.  The  instant  he  entered  the  George 
Salon  there  was  a  hush.  Fear  and  submission  were  ap- 
parent. The  maskers  separated  and  left  an  unimpeded 
pathway  for  him.  He  walked  haughtily  along  without 
looking  either  to  right  or  left,  nor  did  he  take  notice  of 
any  individual  until  he  had  crossed  the  Salon  and  reached 
the  edge  of  the  Winter  Garden,  where  he  turned  toward 
Gregory  Orlov,  who,  with  two  spies,  was  resting  from 
the  dance. 

"  I  wish  you  a  good  evening,  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin," 
said  Orlov,  stepping  forward  and  bowing  humbly. 

The  dancers  listened  eagerly  to  the  conversation  and 
showed  their  interest  by  vivid  pantomime  behind  their 
backs. 

210 


THE  MASKED  BALL 

"  I  need  not  return  that  wish  to  you,  Sir,  since  we  all 
know  that  it  is  a  good  evening  for  the  Orlovs." 

The  spies,  emboldened  by  their  belief  that  the  Grand 
Duchess  was.dead,  since  they  had  seen  her  leave  the  hall 
with  one  of  their  number,  nudged  each  other  triumphantly. 
It  was  evident  that  the  words  had  made  impression  upon 
the  listening  crowd.  The  French  spy,  believing  the  op- 
position had  triumphed,  became  insolent  and  tried  his 
wit  upon  the  Great  Chancellor, — 

"  It  seems  likewise  to  be  a  good  evening  for  Prussia, 
Count  Bestushev-Rjumin,  else  why  are  there  so  many 
Holstein  uniforms  present?" 

'  The  season,  my  young  friend, —  the  season !  Win- 
ter is  near.  Cabbages  and  turnips  are  not  sprouting  in 
the  gardens.  Therefore,  Holstein  uniforms  take  their 
place.  A  cabbage  is  a  very  good  substitute  for  a  Hol- 
steiner." 

The  listening  dancers  laughed  aloud  and  a  breath  of 
merriment  swept  the  crowd.  Every  Slav  was  proud  of 
the  old  bear  whose  snarling  teeth  could  hold  a  world  at 
bay. 

The  French  spy  could  not  put  up  with  defeat  and  tried 
again  for  victory. 

"  I  met  the  Grand  Duke  to-night,  Count  Bestushev- 
Rjumin,  who  may  —  I  suppose  at  any  moment  —  be  Em- 
peror," glancing  triumphantly  at  the  Prussian  spy,  beside 
him.  "  He  wore  a  Holstein  uniform." 

'Very  likely  —  very  likely  —  my  young  friend.  He 
wears  it  for  his  health.  He  is  chilly  —  has  thin  blood. 
He  thinks  the  collar  protects  his  neck.  You  have  heard 
our  Russian  proverb,  have  you  not?  'The  green  apple 
is  not  sweet;  the  young  man  not  strong.'  ' 

"  With  your  permission,   Great  Chancellor,  I  would 

211 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

suggest  that  time  is  a  cure  for  both.     It  ripens  the  apple 
and  strengthens  the  man." 

"  Time !  —  young  man !  "  flung  back  a  voice  as  cruel 
as  the  blast  of  an  Arctic  winter.  "  What  have  we  to  do 
with  that?  Pray  to  your  God  for  that!  " 

He  walked  angrily  away  into  the  Winter  Garden  and 
the  Prussian  spy  followed  him, 

"  Great  Chancellor,  may  I  have  the  honor  of  a  few 
moments'  conversation  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  of  anything  to  prevent  you.  The 
freedom  of  the  ball  is  yours,  I  suppose,  as  much  as  any- 
one's." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  bore  you,  Great  Chancellor,  to  an- 
noy you,  but  — " 

"  Come,  come !  I  am  not  a  courtier.  Do  not  ex- 
pect me  to  say  —  I  am  delighted.  The  pleasure  is  all 
mine." 

"  May  I  beg  you  humbly,  Great  Chancellor,  to  come  a 
little  nearer  —  a  little  farther  this  way,  I  mean?  I  do 
not  wish  the  others  to  hear." 

"  I  regret  greatly  that  I  am  not  one  of  the  others." 

"  Not  all  duties  are  pleasant  to  me  — " 

"Enough!"  Again  it  was  as  if  a  blast  of  ice  struck 
his  hearers  with  a  burning  and  a  bitter  cruelty. 

When  they  reached  the  front  of  the  Winter  Garden, 
Count  Bestushev-Rjumin  suddenly  became  forgetful  of 
the  spy  and  walked  to  and  fro,  his  hands  folded  behind 
his  back,  talking  to  himself  as  was  his  habit. 

"  The  French  ought  to  give  up  diplomacy !  All  they 
can  do  is  to  scrape  and  bow.  They  are  a  race  of  danc- 
ing masters." 

The  Prussian  spy.  confused,  coughed  awkwardly  in  an 
attempt  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  Chancellor. 

212 


THE  MASKED  BALL 

"  You  here  still !  You  seem  to  resemble  God's  poor  — 
Well, —  what  do  you  want?  " 

"  I  have  a  — " 

Again  the  Great  Chancellor  was  plunged  in  medita- 
tion and  forgetful  of  the  spy. 

"  And  the  Prussians  ought  to  give  up  diplomacy  and 
grow  vegetables.  That  is  what  they  were  made  for  — 
How  are  they  different  from  us?  The  Little  Russians 
—  they  are  musicians,  artists,  dreamers  —  the  Great  Rus- 
sians —  subtler  —  yes,  than  the  devil  himself." 

"  Pardon,  Great  Chancellor,  the  interruption.  The 
cause  is  urgent  and  the  night  is  passing.  Even  God, 
whom  you  told  my  French  friend  to  ask  for  time,  will 
not  make  a  night  eternal  save  that  long  one  —  whose 
approach  may  He  forfend." 

"Well?" 

"  My  message  is  a  pitiful  one." 

;'  Well." 

"  I  beg  you  to  listen,  Great  Chancellor,  with  sym- 
pathy." 

"Well!" 

"  My  royal  master,  Frederick  of  Prussia,  authorizes 
me  to  acknowledge  his  defeat,  his  complete  overthrow, 
in  the  long  battle  of  diplomacy  which  has  been  waged  be- 
tween him  and  you,  and  to  sue  you,  not  as  an  opponent,  but 
as  a  suppliant." 

"Well-—" 

"  No  personal  good  can  come  to  you  now  that  he  has 
acknowledged  your  superiority,  by  further  pushing  his 
ruin  and  that  of  Berlin.  Your  pride  is  satisfied,  your 
revenge.  And  Russia  is  great  enough." 

"  Well,  well !     Time  and  I  —  we  can  defeat  anyone." 

At  these  words  there  flitted  through  the  mind  of  the 

213 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

Prussian  the  foolish  fables  of  the  people,  and  the  gossip 
of  the  peasants  that  this  old  man  had  lived  forever. 

'  Your  devotion  to  Russia  has  lasted  long  enough. 
Besides,  this  country  cannot  possibly  be  to  you  what 
Prussia  is  to  my  master.  It  is  his  birthplace,  his  in- 
herited possession.  You  cannot  love  it  the  same  way. 
You  cannot  be  expected  to.  You  are  fighting  for  glory. 
He  is  fighting  for  home  and  country. 

'  When  he  entered  this  battle  with  you,  Count  Bes- 
tushev-Rjumin,  he  was  a  young  man.  See  what  you  have 
done  to  him !  He  is  feeble  and  old  now,  and  broken  in 
health.  You  have  stolen  away  his  youth.  Why,  in  Ber- 
lin to-day  they  call  him  c  Old  Fritz  ' !  What  greater  has 
a  man  to  give  than  his  health  and  his  youth!  You  have 
stolen  them  all  away. 

"  There  are  other  things,  too,  Great  Chancellor,  that 
you  should  consider.  He  is  the  child  of  Prussia,  the 
descendent  of  its  kings,  the  keeper  of  its  honor.  You 
are  only  the  paid  servant  here.  You  do  not  come  of  a 
knightly  race.  You  cannot  love  as  he  can.  You  cannot 
grieve  as  he  can.  Consider  this,  Great  Chancellor,  the 
difference,  and  call  back  the  Russian  army!  You  have 
gained  your  end !  Surely  you  are  satisfied !  " 

"  Well,  well !  Who  lives  learns.  And  the  world  says 
that  I  have  lived  a  good  deal.  I  do  not  love  this  coun- 
try as  he  loves  Prussia !  Then  what  is  it  that  I  have 
worked  for?  Is  it  reasonable  to  suppose  that  a  brain 
great  enough  to  outwit  your  wily  Frederick  and  check  the 
ambitious  schemes  of  Europe  would  work  for,  or  be  sat- 
isfied with,  a  petty  personal  revenge?  If  that  had  been 
my  object,  I  should  have  failed.  Is  there  no  one  great 
enough  to  take  my  measure?  Has  no  one  understood? 
What  is  it,  think  you,  that  I  have  worked  for?  Am  I 
rich  ?  I  am  the  poorest  man  in  Russia.  Even  the  house 

214 


THE  MASKED  BALL 

I  live  in  is  not  my  own.  As  every  one  knows,  it  was 
purchased  with  money  which  I  borrowed  from  England. 
I  have  nothing  to  call  my  own.  Where  are  the  orders, 
the  insignia  of  rank  which  your  kings  have  offered?  Do 
you  see  them?  Do  I  wear  them?  Have  I  titles,  land, 
gold?  What  is  it  then?" 

"  Fame  —  perhaps  — " 

"Fame!  What  is  that?  It  is  the  idlest  caprice  of 
nature !  It  is  the  fool's  cap  which  Life  places  upon  the 
head  of  them  who  are  unworthy." 

"  Then  what  reward?     For  reward  there  must  be  — " 

"  Silence!  God  and  my  conscience  will  reward  me. 
There  is  only  one  thing  that  can  make  a  man  forget 
self;  that  can  make  illness  and  old  age  as  if  they  were 
not;  that  can  make  him  deaf  to  the  allurement  of  gold 
—  and  that  is  love.  That  is  what  I  have  worked  for  I 
Love  for  Russia  and  for  my  blessed  master,  Peter  the 
Great.  Your  Frederick  is  a  cipher  to  his  country  in 
comparison  with  what  I  am  to  Russia.  It  was  thrust 
upon  him.  He  had  neither  desire  nor  ambition.  I  have 
made  Russia!  It  is  the  child  of  my  brain.  Consider 
for  a  moment.  What  it  took  Rome  centuries  to  do, 
Peter  the  Great  and  I  did  in  one  brief  life.  Death  called 
him.  I  am  alone  now!  I  am  alone." 

The  proud  spirit  had  vanished.  The  erect  flamelike 
figure  was  bent.  He  was  just  a  weak  and  feeble  old 
man  with  trembling,  transparent  hands  upon  which  were 
the  purple,  knotted  veins  of  age.  His  face  looked  as 
white  and  as  unearthly  as  if  it  were  ready  to  crumble. 

The  Prussian  spy  continued  speaking  to  ears  that  were 
apparently  deaf: 

"  But  to  continue,  Great  Chancellor,  life  is  necessary. 
In  addition  to  what  I  said  before,  Frederick  the  King 
comes  to  you  as  a  friend.  He  knows,  as  do  we  all,  that 

215 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

your  present  position  is  precarious.  You  have  never 
been  able  to  win  the  affection  of  Elizabeth  Petrovna. 
Now,  you  share  with  the  Grand  Duchess  her  disfavor.  If 
she  recovers,  you  will  be  exiled  —  Siberia  —  death  there, 
—  perhaps  —  If  she  does  not  recover  and  the  Grand 
Dukes  reigns,  your  fate  will  be  the  same." 

"Death?  No,  no!  I  think  not,"  laughing  a  thin, 
cold  laugh  that  made  his  hearer  shudder,  and  recall  afresh 
the  foolish  stories  of  the  Ghostly  Chancellor's  indestructi- 
bility. 

"Exile?  Yes;  perhaps  —  for  a  time.  But  what  of 
that?  The  Grand  Duke  cannot  reign.  But  —  the 
Grand  Duchess  can." 

"  Do  not  count  upon  the  Grand  Duchess,"  replied  the 
Prussian  spy  with  the  joyous  secret  of  her  supposed  death, 
which  he  himself  had  helped  to  plan,  trembling  upon  his 
tongue.  "  She  is  the  natural  daughter  of  Frederick  the 
Great." 

"  Do  you  suppose,  young  man,  that  you  are  in  a  posi- 
tion to  tell  things  to  me  of  which  I  never  heard?  " 

The  ring  of  steel  had  crept  gradually  back  into  the 
voice  again  and  its  cruel  inflexibility  had  stiffened  the 
frail  figure. 

Oh !  how  he  wished  that  he  dared  to  tell  him  that  she 
was  dead! 

"  Frederick  the  Great  made  her  body  —  so  the  gossips 
say  —  what  of  that  ?  I  made  her  mind.  She  is  my  other 
self." 

"  But  you  cannot  know  what  she  can  do,  Great  Chan- 
cellor. She  may  die.  Death  comes  to  all.  Then,  why 
suffer  a  temporary  disgrace  when  it  can  be  avoided  so 
easily?  " 

'  What  do  you  mean?     Speak  out." 

"  This !  Retire  for  a  time  from  power  in  order,  later, 

216 


THE  MASKED  BALL 

to  rule  uninterruptedly.  In  return  for  a  slight  favor, 
Frederick  the  Great  will  make  you  Duke  of  Courland 
or  Hospodar  of  Moldavia  — " 

"  With  that  you  could  not  lure  a  dog  from  the  oven !  " 

"  Wait.  Wait.  Let  me  finish.  And  in  gold  you  may 
name  your  own  figure  —  even  to  the  half  of  the  revenues 
of  Prussia.  By  the  greatness  of  his  offer  measure  his 
respect,  his  admiration  — " 

"  Aye,  aye !  And  his  fear !  Do  you  suppose  I  do 
not  understand?  While  I  live,  he  knows  that  he  will 
never  be  master  of  the  north.  He  knows  that  in  me  he 
has  a  rival  who  works  unceasingly.  Do  I  not  know  that 
to  each  of  his  ambassadors,  until  it  was  my  pleasure  that 
he  should  send  no  more,  he  has  given  these  instructions, 
'  Bestushev-Rjumin  must  be  destroyed  '?  He  knows  that 
I  am  the  only  one  living  who  understands  the  ambitious 
dream  of  Peter  the  Great.  He  knows  that  I  am  the  only 
one  who  can  train  its  youthful  rulers  to  carry  out  that 
dream. 

"  Suppose,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  that  the  offer 
tempted  me.  Should  I  have  the  right  to  sell?  More! 
—  should  I  have  the  power  to  sell  ?  Would  it  come 
within  my  jurisdiction  to  change  the  decrees  of  nature? 
No,  it  would  not !  Besides,  it  is  not  a  question  of  myself, 
or  of  which  one  shall  be  the  one  to  rule,  that  is  at  stake. 
It  is  a  question  of  the  progress  of  a  race  and  a  nation. 
It  is  the  question  of  Russia  as  a  European  power. 

'  Your  king  is  eager  for  Europe  to  lose  sight  of  us. 
He  wishes  to  change  our  rulers  back  again  into  Eastern 
princelings.  He  wishes  to  make  us  give  up  our  new 
capital,  Petersburg." 

''Would  not  that  please  your  people?  That  is  what 
they  wish.  Is  not  their  welfare  a  ruler's  first  care? 
Your  people  are,  for  the  most  part,  Muscovites  of  the  old 

217 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

school.  They  hate  your  new  city.  They  have  no  sym- 
pathy with  your  plans  for  conquest  and  civilization. 
What  do  they  care  for  the  provinces  you  have  wrested 
from  Sweden?  What  do  they  care  for  your  new  sea 
power,  or  the  Baltic  lands?  Nothing!  Nothing  at  all! 
They  want  to  go  back  to  their  great,  princely  estates  upon 
the  plains  of  central  Russia  where  they  can  live  just  as 
their  ancestors  lived  —  untouched  by  foreign  influence. 
They  love  Moscow  and  Kiev." 

"  It  is  their  duty  to  follow,  not  to  lead." 
*  You  have  recalled  me  to  my  own  duty,  Great  Chan- 
cellor.    It  is  mine   to   follow.'   Name   your   conditions. 
The  King,  my  royal  master,  will  grant  them." 

'  You  misunderstand  me.  So  does  your  royal  master. 
I  am  not  a  Prussian  shopkeeper.  I  do  not  know  how  to 
bargain." 

"  What  answer  shall  I  take  to  my  master,  Great  Chan- 
cellor?" 

"  What  you  wish." 

"  But  what  answer  from  you?  " 

14  It  is  unimportant." 

"  Must  I  return  emptyhanded?  " 

"  You  might  recall  to  his  mind  —  if  it  is  your  pleasure 
—  that  when  Peter  the  Great  told  me  to  choose  a  motto 
for  my  family,  I  chose  these  words:  'Semper  idem.'" 

"  But  surely  you  will  send  him  some  other  word,  some- 
thing in  keeping  with  his  generous  kindness?  " 

"  Well,  well  —  then  —  Yes.  Yes !  Since  you  in- 
sist. Tell  your  royal  master  that  Bestushev-Rjumin  says 
that  he  is  too  merry  with  his  purse." 


218 


CHAPTER  X 

MUHR'S   ON  THE   MORSKOI 

Muhr's  Coffee  House  on  the  Morskoi  shared  with  the 
Dresden  Woman's  popularity  and  patronage  in  Peters- 
burg in  the  middle  of  the  Great  Century.  It  was  a  bril- 
liant, Bohemian  place  of  rendezvous  such  as  France  was 
rapidly  making  fashionable.  It  was,  likewise,  a  gambling 
resort  for  men  and  women  of  the  upper  class,  where  that 
engrossing  passion  of  the  race  might  be  seen  in  its  per- 
fection. Here,  the  latest  delicacies  in  food  might  be  had 
and  the  newest  papers.  And  here,  too,  fashion  sheets 
were  passed  around  free  of  charge  just  as  they  were  in 
the  Imperial  Theater  between  the  acts.  At  either  end  of 
the  oblong  large  room  which  served  as  restaurant,  were 
doors,  low,  square,  and  provided  with  bolts  made  of 
wood.  The  door  on  the  left  opened  into  the  kitchen  and 
was  the  waiters'  place  of  entrance.  The  one  on  the  right 
was  the  street  door.  The  walls  were  bare  save  for  an 
occasional  icon  beneath  which  burned  a  candle,  and  long, 
slanting  holders  of  iron  into  which  torches  were  stuck, 
which  splashed  the  room  with  shadows. 

At  one  of  the  uncovered  wooden  tables  were  the  Grand 
Duke  Peter,  his  negro  dwarf,  Narcissus,  crouching  at  his 
feet;  Elizabeth  Woronzov  and  Countess  Bruce  in  men's 
attire;  and  a  Prussian  and  a  French  spy. 

The  Grand  Duke's  face  looked  pinched  and  pitiful. 
His  eyes  were  vague  and  seemed  to  be  dashed  with  fretful 
tears.  He  looked  more  slender  than  usual,  and  sickly. 

219 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

His  loose  hung,  awkward  body  seemed  to  be  held  together 
by  his  Holstein  uniform.  To-night  two  expressions 
changed  constantly  upon  his  face,  as  if  from  the  depths 
of  that  unmeasured  sea  of  the  soul,  called  self,  two  dif- 
ferent persons  took  turn  about  in  floating  up  to  the  plane 
of  visibility.  One,  the  inspired  face  of  a  dreamer,  with 
eyes  that  saw  above  and  beyond;  the  other,  the  face  of  a 
trembling,  capricious  idiot,  disfigured  by  smallpox  and 
disease.  Upon  his  weak,  slender  hand  there  was  a 
medallion  portrait  of  Frederick  the  Great  set  in  a  large 
awkward  ring.  Elizabeth  Woronzov  was  young,  fat, 
short,  dark  haired,  and  of  a  rather  pure  Slav  type  of 
central  Russia.  Her  eyes  were  green  and  set  a  trifle 
aslant,  opening  widest,  Calmuck-wise,  at  the  outer  cor- 
ners; her  nose  was  retrousse  and  a  little  short;  her  lips 
were  too  red.  The  face  had  little  intelligence  and  no 
nobility.  The  Countess  Bruce  had  round,  merry,  brown 
eyes  that  sparkled  with  malice;  reddish  brown  hair,  a  lit- 
tle moustache,  and  round  red  cheeks.  They  were  playing 
kampis,  the  game  beloved  of  Holstein.  In  front  of  the 
ladies  and  the  Grand  Duke  were  small,  richly  chased 
saucers  of  solid  gold  filled  with  unset  gems  that  flamed 
savagely  under  the  torches.  Beside  each  saucer  was  a 
diminutive  spoon  of  gold  with  which  to  lift  the  gems. 
These  luxurious  gambling  accessories  were  made  in 
France  especially  for  the  court  of  Russia. 

The  Grand  Duke  was  bending  over  the  table  eagerly, 
his  nervous  face  quivering  with  excitement. 

"  Play,  Elizabeth  Woronzov.  Play.  Play.  How 
can  you  keep  me  waiting  like  this?  " 

"  Your  Highness,  why  should  I  risk  a  gem  that  I  love 
for  a  paper  card  that  is  worthless?  I  think  I  will 
not." 

"Play,  play!  Do  you  not  see  that  I  am  waiting? 

220 


MUHR'S  ON  THE  MORSKOI 

Why  do  you  do  things  like  this?  Why  do  you  all  annoy 
me  all  you  can?  " 

Narcissus  cuddled  up  to  him  closely  and  leaned  his 
black,  foolish  head  against  his  leg. 

Elizabeth  Woronzov  put  down  the  card  slowly  and 
reluctantly. 

"  Mine !  Still  mine !  Now,  Countess  Bruce,  it  is  your 
turn.  Put  down  your  card." 

"  Not  until  I  am  ready.  I  am  not  Elizabeth  Woron- 
zov. I  do  as  I  please.  Now  guess,  your  Highness.  Do 
you  think  that  you  have  won?  Can  you  not  wait  a  mo- 
ment? What  is  the  matter  with  you  that  you  are  so  rest- 
less and  impatient?  " 

"  Do  not  act  like  that!  Put  it  down,  I  say —  Put  It 
down!"  trembling  with  diseased  nerves  that  nothing 
could  control. 

She  played. 

"  Mine !  All  mine !  You,  Countess  Bruce,  owe  me  a 
sapphire." 

"  Here  it  is,"  lifting  one  with  the  tiny  spoon  and  de- 
positing it  in  the  Grand  Duke's  saucer. 

"  And  you,  Elizabeth  Woronzov,  a  ruby." 

"  I  haven't  any." 

"Come, —  pay!  Do  not  be  a  baby !  You  always  op- 
pose me  and  make  things  difficult.  Why  do  you  do  it? 
Narcissus  here  is  the  only  one  who  loves  me  and  tries  to 
make  me  happy,"  patting  the  head  whose  eyes  glanced 
up  at  him  with  the  devotion  of  a  dog. 

"  I  cannot  give  you  something  that  I  do  not  own,  can  I  ? 
Look  for  yourself  if  you  do  not  believe  it!  You  are  al- 
ways just  so  unreasonable.  I  have  piled  them  into  pyra- 
mids. See!  There  are  the  diamonds,  there  the  emer- 
alds, here  the  sapphires.  Do  you  see  them?" 

"  Yes,  yes !  Plenty  of  them !  Lean  over  here !  " 

221 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

yielding  to  one  of  his  lovable,  unreasoning  inclinations, 
he  kissed  her.  "  The  lips  of  Elizabeth  Woronzov  are 
dearer  than  the  rubies  of  Russia." 

"  That  is  not  fair,"  cried  Countess  Bruce.  "  She  loses 
and  still  wins." 

'  When  you  play  with  a  Grand  Duke  of  Russia,"  throw- 
ing off  easily  his  moment  of  ill  humor,  "  qui  perd  gagne 
toujours.  Now  we  will  cut  for  the  deal.  I  stake  these 
three  diamonds  on  the  cut.  Look  at  them!  Are  they 
not  beautiful?  Who  beats  me  gets  them.  Now  is  your 
chance,  Countess  Bruce.  High  wins." 

The  cards  were  dealt  and  placed  upon  the  table. 

"  Narcis,  fill  the  goblets  with  Hungarian  wine.  First, 
Elizabeth  Woronzov,  you  begin.  Cut.  Cut,  I  say  I 
Why  are  you  so  slow !  " 

1  Two  of  diamonds." 

"  Not  enough !  "  exclaimed  Countess  Bruce. 

"  Go  on,  Countess !     Cut  first.     I  am  sure  to  win." 

Countess  Bruce  cuts. 

"  King  of  spades." 

"  Now  why  did  you  do  that?  You  know  that  that  is 
bad  luck  for  me.  Spades  mean  death.  You  could  just 
as  well  have  cut  something  else,  if.you  had  tried." 

"  Cut  yourself,  then !  See  if  you  do  better.  The 
aces  are  out." 

The  Grand  Duke  cut. 

"  Five  of  hearts !  Lost!  By  the  body  of  Holy  Isaac! 
Here  are  your  diamonds." 

"  I  call  these  better  than  the  rubies  of  Elizabeth 
Woronzov." 

The  Grand  Duke  picked  up  the  cards  and  threw  them 
across  the  room  in  anger. 

"  Accursed  luck !  That  means  that  something  is  going 
to  happen  —  to  me." 

222 


MUHR'S  ON  THE  MORSKOI 

"  Nonsense !  "  interrupted  the  Prussian  spy.  "  Brace 
up  !  Nerve  and  steadiness  of  purpose  are  what  you  need. 
Unlucky  at  cards,  lucky  at  love." 

"  That  may  be  true  with  you,  but  it  isn't  with  us.  Here 
in  Russia  we  say, '  Lucky  in  love,  unlucky  in  life.'  ' 

"  How  can  that  be,  your  Highness  ?  Love  and  life  are 
one." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  argue.  We  will  deal  again.  I 
will  not  stand  for  this.  Pick  up  those  cards,  Narcis. 
Pick  them  up  !  Quickly,  you  black  devil !  Good,  Nar- 
cis 1  Now  drink  some  of  my  wine."  He  held  the  goblet 
down  with  a  tenderness  that  was  almost  loving  toward 
the  black  hideous  mouth. 

"  Is  not  this  enough  to-night,  your  Royal  Highness?  " 
questioned  Elizabeth  Woronzov.  "  Please  do  not  play 
more  to-night.  We  are  wasting  time." 

"  To-night  there  are  more  important  things  to  attend 
to,  your  Royal  Highness,"  pleaded  the  Prussian  spy. 

"  Yes,  that  is  right,"  affirmed  the  French  spy.  "  An- 
other time  is  best." 

"Quickly  —  hand  me  those  cards,  Narcis,"  his  face 
twitching  painfully. 

"  You  are  a  fool,  Narcis  —  and  they  say  that  I  am  not 
much  better.  But  I'd  give  everything  in  the  world  for 
you  and  one  year  of  peace  in  Sweden.  Just  one  year  of 
peace  again  among  the  mountain  farms  —  where  I  used 
to  live  when  I  was  a  child.  They  were  so  green,  and 
the  night  came  down  with  such  peace.  There  is  nothing 
in  Russia  I  want.  There  is  nothing  that  can  make  me 
happy.  There  is  nothing  here  but  blood  and  death.  If 
one  does  not  die,  then  there  is  fear  and  worry.  I  think  I 
would  rather  die  and  have  it  over  with. 

"  The  scent  of  blood  —  the  blood  of  battles  and  the 
blood  of  the  poor  people  who  died  in  building  this  fateful 

223 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

city  —  is  in  the  air.  I  smell  it  all  the  time.  Lcannot  get 
away  from  it.  There  are  not  perfumes  enough  in  Peters- 
burg to  dull  it.  That  is  why  they  love  flowers  here  so. 
It  is  a  secret  we  guard  carefully.  We  love  them  to  shut 
out  the  smell  of  blood ! 

"  But  the  flowers  cannot  keep  it  away  from  me.  Noth- 
ing can.  I  smell  it  all  the  time.  No  matter  where  I  go 
or  what  I  do,  I  can  smell  it.  I  can  smell  it  in  my  sleep. 
The  blood  of  battles  is  in  this  air,  where  for  so  many 
generations  the  armies  of  Sweden,  Prussia  and  Poland 
have  fought,  and  the  Cossacks  of  the  Don." 

He  had  become  forgetful  of  his  audience  and  their 
fears,  and  the  fate  of  the  futile  crown  that  was  trembling 
above  his  head.  The  twitching  of  his  face  had  stopped, 
and  his  eyes,  temporarily  strong  and  dominant,  were  look- 
ing ahead  and  beyond  into  a  land  that  none  but  he  could 
see. 

"  Come,  come,  your  Highness,"  begged  Countess 
Bruce,  "  play  no  more  to-night." 

He  dropped  speedily  from  his  splendid  land  of  dreams 
and  visions  where  even  he  sometimes  could  rule,  and  the 
old  fretfulness  reasserted  itself. 

"  Of  course !  Of  course !  Just  so  sure  as  I  am  enjoy- 
ing myself  some  one  says —  '  Don't!  '  It  has  always 
been  that  way.  I  have  never  done  anything  I  wanted 
to." 

"  Do  not  be  unreasonable,  and  grieve  and  disappoint  us 
again  to-night,"  insisted  Elizabeth  Woronzov,  in  an  im- 
patient voice. 

"  Again!  you  say.  I  suppose  I  am  in  the  habit  of 
grieving  and  disappointing  people?  I  suppose  I  do  it 
right  along,  do  I  not?  " 

4  You  do  not  wish  to  waste  the  most  precious  night  of 
your  life,  do  you  ?  " 

224 


MUHR'S  ON  THE  MORSKOI 

"  Give  me  the  counters  then !  Keep  what  you  have 
won  —  both  of  you." 

He  gathered  up  the  saucers  and  spoons  sulkily,  fitting 
one  into  the  other  and  handed  them  to  Narcissus,  who  put 
them  into  a  velvet  bag  that  hung  suspended  from  his 
shoulder. 

Then,  the  Grand  Duke  placed  a  glass  box  upon  the 
table  to  receive  the  gems  which  he  had  emptied  into  his 
hands  where  he  passed  them  back  and  forth  from  one 
hand  to  the  other  admiringly.  The  two  ladies  placed 
theirs  in  similar  glass  boxes  which  they  put  into  their 
pockets. 

"Are  they  not  lovely?"  he  exclaimed,  dazzled  by  a 
wavering  flash  of  torchlight  that  enlivened  them  an,d 
called  out  their  sleeping  splendor. 

"  Are  they  not  lovely?  I  have  never  loved  but  three 
things  —  music  and  cards  and  gems  —  and  you,  Narcis," 
patting  tenderly  the  shapeless  head.  "  Nothing  else  can 
make  me  happy.  Look !  Look !  "  dropping  them 
slowly  from  hand  to  hand  so  that  the  torches  might  strike 
through  them. 

"  If  I  only  had  the  fire  that  is  in  their  cold  hearts, 
you  would  not  need  to  admonish  me.  Oh !  —  I  know, 
I  know —  You  need  not  look  at  each  other  like  thatl 
I  know  what  they  all  say  of  me  —  and  you,  too  1  All  but 
Narcis,  here.  He  is  the  only  person  in  the  world  who  is 
true  to  me.  He  is  the  only  person  in  the  world  who  loves 
me  —  the  only  one.  And  he  ought  to  envy  me  —  poor 
devil!  I  am  capable  of  stealing  his  profession.  Just 
wait,  Narcis, —  you  shall  have  your  chance  yet!  Just 
wait!  When  I  am  Emperor  we  will  change  places  for  a 
day  —  you  and  I.  You  shall  be  Emperor  and  I  will  be 
fool." 

"  Come,  come,  do  not  waste  more  time,"  pleaded 

225 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

Countess  Bruce.     "  Put  up  the  gems  and  sit  down  here." 

But  the  Grand  Duke  did  not  hear  a  word  that  was 
said  to  him.  He  was  absorbed  in  forgetful  contempla- 
tion of  the  gems  he  loved.  He  poured  them  delightedly 
through  his  hands  for  the  torches  to  pierce  them  with  their 
flames.  Or,  again,  he  held  them  singly,  one  by  one,  in 
order  to  peer  intently  into  their  shivering  hearts.  "  Ru- 
bies I  They  are  warrior  gems, —  triumphant,  despotic, 
glowing  with  a  savage  splendor.  See !  —  the  red  hate  in 
that  one's  heart !  Sapphires !  They  are  ecstatic  saints 
sanctified  by  the  sight  of  God.  I  could  pray  to  them. 
Emeralds!  "  Here  his  voice  faltered  and  the  old,  quick 
tears  veiled  his  eyes.  "  Emeralds !  They  are  the  color 
of  the  peaceful,  wet,  green  meadows  of  Sweden  I  saw 
when  I  was  a  child;  meadows  under  the  edge  of  ancient 
forests." 

He  paused  to  choke  back  a  sob  that  shook  his  voice : 

"  If  I  had  my  violin,  I  could  tell  you  all  about  them. 
Diamonds!  The  joy  of  death  when  it  speeds  shining 
from  the  steel  —  the  joy  of  death !  " 

For  the  inspired  fervor  of  the  instant  a  ghostly,  fleeting 
likeness  to  that  imperial  general,  his  grandfather,  Charles 
XII,  of  Sweden,  flashed  from  his  person  and  then  faded 
softly  away. 

"  Your  Highness,"  persisted  the  trained,  expressionless 
voice  of  the  French  spy,  "  let  us  begin  the  subject  we  came 
here  to  discuss.  The  night  is  no  longer  young.  We  are 
wasting  it." 

"  You  all  try  to  make  me  unhappy.  Why  did  I  not 
stay  at  home  and  play  with  my  dolls?  " 

At  this  point  in  their  conversation  Catherine  Alexevna 
entered  in  her  disguise  as  a  soldier.  She  seated  herself 
at  one  of  the  little  tables,  but  within  hearing  distance, 

226 


MUHR'S  ON  THE  MORSKOI 

with  her  back  toward  the  royal  party.  Narcissus  looked 
at  her  attentively  and  uneasily.  Something  compelling 
touched  his  senses,  which  he  could  not  understand;  some- 
thing vague,  tantalizing,  and  in  a  slight  degree  unpleasant. 
Suddenly,  that  instinct  of  penetration  belonging  to  fools 
and  animals  forced  the  truth  upon  him.  His  face  con- 
vulsed in  a  spasm  of  helpless  fear  and  his  teeth  began  their 
old-time  chattering.  He  had  heard  them  say  that  she 
was  dead.  And  here  was  the  dead  come  back  to  life. 
How  he  hated  and  feared  her,  this  woman  with  the  eyes 
of  sapphire,  that  could  burn  their  will  into  his  brain! 
Nothing  had  struck  such  terror  to  his  soul  as  her  cold  and 
dominating  presence.  Slowly,  then,  a  thought  detached 
itself  from  his  piled  up  fear,  just  as  a  coil  of  smoke  de- 
taches itself  from  the  piled  up  faggots  of  a  bonfire  and 
curls  slowly  aloft.  He  could  be  the  instrument  of  her 
death!  He  could  bring  about  the  end  of  this  woman 
whom  he  feared.  He  could  now  square  accounts  and 
revenge  himself  upon  her.  She  was  alone !  He  would 
tell  it  to  the  Grand  Duke  and  the  spies.  They  would  put 
her  out  of  the  way.  The  reason  that  the  Grand  Duke 
and  his  friends  were  at  Muhr's,  he  knew,  was  to  be  able 
to  prove  an  alibi  in  the  abducting  of  the  Grand  Duchess. 
But  the  others  at  the  palace  had  failed!  And  he  —  the 
fool  —  was  the  only  one  who  knew  it.  The  fate  of  Rus- 
sia and  his  beloved  master  rested  with  him.  He  tried  to 
speak  and  tell  him.  He  tried  to  whisper  to  him.  He 
tried  to  whisper  to  the  spies  and  Elizabeth  Woronzov. 
But  something  lamed  his  will  so  that  he  could  not.  Some- 
thing prevented  him  from  sending  the  command  from 
brain  to  mouth.  He  sat  there  futile  and  silent  with  the 
terrifying  secret  whirling  helplessly  in  his  brain.  And  she 
would  hear  all  his  master  said.  He  knew  it,  but  he  could 

227 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

not  prevent  it,  because  his  mouth  and  his  tongue  refused 
obedience.  Some  paralyzing  mental  fluid  crippled  his 
will. 

'  With  what  can  I  serve  you?  "  he  heard  the  waiter 
address  the  question  to  Catherine  Alexevna,  while  the 
Grand  Duke  and  his  friends  were  chatting  foolishly  on. 

"What  have  you?"  came  the  calm  answer.  The 
waiter  repeated  the  bill  of  fare,  adding  the  following  deli- 
cacies which  were  not  printed  upon  it:  "  Yellow  honey 
from  the  Ural  Mountains;  flavored  kraut  from  Serpu- 
chov;  moose  berries  from  the  Ukraine;  young  radishes 
from  Mjasnov;  eierspeise  with  cheese;  caviare  from  As- 
trakan  and  the  mouth  of  the  Volga;  bear's  ham;  roast 
moor  fowl;  smoked  moose;  reindeer  tongues;  stuffed 
boar's  head." 

"Caviare,  and  sbiten  to  drink.  Wait!  First  bring 
me  the  papers.  The  Petersburg  News  and  The  Free 
Hamburg  Correspondent." 

The  waiter  brought  the  papers  and  she  became  ab- 
sorbed in  reading,  while  the  frightened  dwarf  stared  at 
her  with  uncomprehending  eyes.  The  calm,  indifferent 
voice  sent  fresh  terror  to  the  soul  of  Narcissus  because 
of  its  contrast  with  the  unrestrainable  tumult  of  his  own 
soul. 

It  was  this  combination  of  savage  and  disciplined  seren- 
ity that  had  made  her  such  an  object  of  fear  and  hatred 
to  him.  The  prickly  arrows  of  his  malicious  wit  had 
been  powerless  to  wound  her.  Like  pebbles  they  rattled 
vainly  against  the  impenetrable  wall  of  her  will. 

'  You  must  listen,  your  Royal  Highness,"  Elizabeth 
Woronzov  was  declaring,  but  in  a  voice  in  which  there 
was  too  much  sweetness.  "  In  case  they  have  not  been 
successful  in  making  way  with  her  to-night  and  she  still 
lives,  we  must  think  out  every  possible  precaution." 

228 


MUHR'S  ON  THE  MORSKOI 

This  jostled  the  dwarf's  trembling  tongue  into  foolish, 
misdirected  speech. 

"  My  master,  do  not  talk  of  that  here !  My  mas- 
ter — "  began  Narcissus,  when  the  memory  of  two  eyes  of 
sapphire  paralyzed  his  will,  and  his  heavy  head  dropped 
back  against  the  Grand  Duke's  leg,  while  his  chin  trembled 
with  the  weight  of  the  words  he  longed  to  utter. 

"  Be  still,  you  fool !  Stop  shaking !  "  giving  him  a  mas- 
terful and  admonitory  kick.  Narcissus  made  a  mighty 
effort  to  break  through  the  something  that  restrained  him 
and  speak.  This  was  followed  by  the  sickening  sensa- 
tion that  this  peculiar  kind  of  mental  impotence  sent 
through  his  limbs.  Greater  and  greater  grew  his  realiza- 
tion of  the  importance  of  the  discovery  to  his  beloved 
master. 

"  We  dare  not  leave  a  loophole  of  escape  for  her,  your 
Highness,"  Countess  Bruce  was  declaring.  u  Every  day 
her  power  grows." 

"  Besides,"  continued  Elizabeth  Woronzov,  "  Orlov 
and  my  sister,  the  Princess  Dashkov,  are  stirring  up  the 
people  against  you.  Orlov  is  working  in  the  army; 
Princess  Dashkov  among  the  courtiers  and  the  scholars." 

"  But  your  sister  I  look  for  you  to  take  care  of." 

"What  can  I  do  with  her,  your  Highness?  The 
Grand  Duchess  has  promised  to  found  some  institution 
and  make  her  the  president.  She  does  not  care  a  fig  about 
you  or  any  one  else.  She  cares  about  herself!  If  you 
cared  as  much  about  yourself,  you  would  be  better 
off." 

'  Your  Royal  Highness,  if  you  do  not  do  as  the  ladies 
suggest,  you  will  be  destroyed  as  completely  as  were  your 
Swedish  ancestors  at  Pultava." 

"  Stop  shaking,  Narcis,  or  I  will  knout  you,"  he  com- 
manded, with  an  oath  that  made  his  hearers  shudder. 

229 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  I     Your  teeth  are  louder 
than  the  castanets  of  a  Spanish  dancer." 

At  these  words  the  soldier  figure  at  the  next  table  that 
had  been  so  absorbed  in  the  papers  felt  carefully  for  the 
buckled  sword.  This  furtive  movement,  too,  the  sensi- 
tive dwarf  saw  and  understood. 

"Right!"  exclaimed  the  French  spy.  "The  Grand 
Duchess  is  becoming  the  fashion.  People  are  talking  of 
her.  I  have  heard  that  story  about  the  fortune  teller  at 
least  one  dozen  times  the  past  week." 

"  What  story  is  that?  "  inquired  the  Grand  Duke.  "  I 
have  not  heard  it" 

The  French  spy  wondered  at  the  Russian  manner  of 
breaking  up  and  distributing  news  so  that  the  fragments 
fell  just  where  the  distributors  wished  them  to  fall. 

"  In  Stettin,  when  she  was  a  child,  a  fortune  teller  told 
her  mother  one  day  that  he  could  see  three  crowns  floating 
above  her  daughter's  head.  And  the  Russian  marriage 
had  not  even  been  thought  of  then." 

The  waiter  entered  with  the  order  of  the  Grand 
Duchess  and  arranged  it  carefully  upon  the  table. 

"And  do  you  know  what  crowns  they  were?  "  asked 
Elizabeth  Woronzov.  "  The  crowns  of  Astrakan,  Kasan 
and  Moscow." 

"  Besides,"  added  Countess  Bruce,  vivaciously  and 
maliciously,  "  she  deceives  you.  If  for  no  other  reason  in 
the  world,  you  ought  to  put  her  out  of  the  way." 

"  I  suppose  she  does  deceive  me,"  he  agreed,  medita- 
tively, but  without  any  anger.  "  But  what  is  the  use  of 
all  this  conversation  if  she  is  dead,  as  you  say  she  is?  If 
she  is  dead  and  drowned  in  the  Gulf  of  Finland,  what  is 
the  use  of  this  conversation?  We  might  as  well  have 
kept  on  playing  kampisf  By  the  living  God,  Narcis,  I 
will  knout  you  to  death,  if  you  do  not  sit  still !  " 

230 


MUHR'S  ON  THE  MORSKOI 

"  But  suppose  she  is  not  dead? "  they  chorused. 
"  Suppose  the  spies  failed?  " 

"  But  suppose  she  is?  " 

"  Is  it  not  best  to  be  on  the  safe  side  ?  " 

"  Of  course !  Of  course !  And  waste  time  in  being 
miserable  !  That  is  what  you  call  wisdom  —  being  mis- 
erable. If  you  are  not,  you  work  hard  to  see  if  you  can 
find  something  to  make  you  miserable.  I  would  rather 
be  a  happy  fool  —  than  so  full  of  the  two  — " 

"  But  your  Royal  Highness,  you  do  not  seem  to  under- 
stand how  dangerous  she  will  be  in  case  my  Prussian  allies 
have  failed  to-night !  The  best  diplomats  in  Europe  who 
have  lived  at  the  court  of  Russia  say  that  no  woman  of 
the  day  can  compete  with  her." 

"  Be  guided  by  their  judgment,"  pleaded  the  French 
spy.  "  You  know  all  that  is  needed  at  any  time  to  over- 
throw the  government  here  and  bring  about  a  change 
of  rulers,  is  a  few  soldiers,  two  or  three  kegs  of  brandy, 
and  a  sack  of  gold." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense !  The  next  government  of  Russia 
will  find  me  at  the  head.  I  shall  be  Peter  III !  " 

'  This  is  no  time  for  boasting.  But  now  be  guided  by 
the  judgment  of  your  friends,"  pleaded  the  French  spy. 
"  I  have  heard  all  sorts  of  things  about  her  that  you  have 
not  heard;  heard  them  with  my  own  ears  —  which  I  can 
trust  —  and  so  can  you.  You  do  not  understand  what 
sort  of  woman  she  is.  You  do  not  comprehend  her. 
And,  since  you  do  not,  you  must  listen  to  and  follow  those 
who  do.  They  say  that  nothing  but  the  extravagance  of  a 
Csesar  can  compare  with  her  entertainments  this  past 
summer  and  autumn  at  Oranienbaum.  What  have  you 
known  of  them?  Nothing!  Is  not  this  proof  that  you 
should  first  listen  and  then  obey? 

"  Esterhazy  said  to  me  only  yesterday  —  you  know 

231 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

what  a  philosophical  student  of  character  he  is!  — *  Have 
you  observed  how  the  Grand  Duchess  *  typifies  Russia  of 
the  Eighteenth  Century?  '  Then  he  explained.  '  She  has 
its  primitive,  undeveloped  power;  its  splendor  of  soul,  its 
daring,  inquisitive  and  analyzing  brain,  and  its  luxurious, 
feline  cruelty.  Her  temperament  unites  the  richness,  the 
elasticity,  the  fury  of  the  Orient,  with  all  that  is  most 
perniciously  subtle  in  cultivated  Europe.  And,  withal, 
she  is  still  German;  calm,  clear  headed  and  methodical.' 
Count  Esterhazy  is  worth  listening  to,  your  Royal  High- 
ness." 

"  Besides,  your  Majesty,"  added  Countess  Bruce, 
"  there  is  nothing  that  can  affect  her.  She  is  a  woman  of 
iron.  Did  you  ever  see  her  grieved?  Did  you  ever  see 
her  forget  herself  and  say  unwise  things?  Did  you  ever 
see  her  gratify  her  temper  at  expense  to  herself?  " 

"  You  are  right,"  strengthened  the  French  spy. 
"  Nothing  affects  her.  The  ideas  of  the  day  amuse  her, 
but  they  do  not  influence  her.  They  are  no  more  effec- 
tive than  the  light  of  our  winter  moon  upon  the  frozen 
wastes  of  this  Finnish  marsh." 

'  Yes,  your  Highness,"  chimed  in  Elizabeth  Woronzov, 
"  and  she  hears  one  thing  and  thinks  something  else.  She 
is  not  swayed  by  what  any  one  says.  And  she  has  no 
heart !  There  is  not  anything  she  cares  for." 

'  The  ladies  are  right,  your  Highness.  Her  power 
and  popularity  are  growing.  The  clergy,  the  army,  the 
people  are  becoming  more  and  more  fond  of  her." 

"  And  the  scholars,  too  —  and  the  poets  — "  the  ladies 
hastened  to  all. 

"Well,  suppose  that  it  is  true,  what  you  have  said? 
The  world  is  at  liberty  to  think  anything  it  wishes  now  that 
she  is  dead.  That  cannot  affect  me.  I  cannot  see  how 

1  Quoted  from  a  letter  by  Count  Esterhazy. 

232 


MUHR'S  ON  THE  MORSKOI 

what  they  thought  of  her  before  my  Prussian  friends  dis- 
posed of  her  is  going  to  injure  me.  Narcissus,  my  fool 
here,  has  really  more  sense  than  any  of  you.  Here,  we 
have  broken  up  a  good  game  of  kampis  to  quarrel  about 
what  the  world  thinks  of  a  dead  woman,  because  to  do  so 
is  what  you  call  wisdom.  Why,  Narcis  here  would  never 
be  guilty  of  a  thing  like  that !  I  wish  now  I  had  put  her 
in  a  convent  the  way  Peter  the  Great  did  with  his  wife." 

"  You  do  not  seem  to  realize,"  said  Elizabeth  Woron- 
zov,  angrily,  "  that  the  plot  against  you  is  matured,  that 
the  parts  are  assigned,  everything  arranged  — " 

"  No,  I  do  not,  because  I  cannot  understand  how  a  plot 
without  a  head  is  any  more  powerful  or  important  than 
a  person  without  a  head.  You  just  wait  —  all  of  you ! 
I  will  show  you  a  thing  or  two  when  I  am  Emperor. 
Then,  they  will  see  that  I  know  something  as  well  as  she. 
One  of  the  first  things  I  am  going  to  do  is  to  make  my 
wig-maker  overseer  of  the  Gobelin  tapestry  factory. 
Does  it  not  stand  to  reason  that  a  man  who  can  make  a 
good  wig  can  make  a  good  tapestry?  " 

"  That  is  commendable,"  agreed  the  spies.  "  But  we 
can  decide  that  later.  If  you  are  to  do  this,  and  other 
things  equally  important  and  commendable, —  among 
which  is  to  hold  your  position  in  Russia,  you  must  have  the 
active  support  of  the  Prussian  King.  You  might  be  set 
aside  for  your  own  son.  That  has  happened  before! 
You  know  the  fate  of  Anna  Leopoldovna.  You  have 
heard  what  became  of  the  son  of  Peter  the  Great  — " 

The  Grand  Duke  had  paid  no  attention  to  the  words  of 
the  spy,  and  broke  out  irrelevantly : 

"  I  just  cannot  wait  until  the  time  comes  for  me  to 
marry  Elizabeth  Woronzov.  I  will  depose  Bestushev- 
Rjumin  and  make  your  father  head  in  everything.  See  if 
I  do  not!  "  turning  toward  her  gayly. 

233 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

"  My  royal  master  of  Prussia  will  see  that  you  do 
everything  you  wish  to  do  —  if  you  grant  him  now  a  slight 
favor.  The  siege  of  Berlin  must  be  stopped  — " 

"Is  that  what  they  are  after  —  those  Russian  dogs? 
Well,  I  think  that  I  will  stop  that!  " 

"  My  royal  master's  capital  is  in  danger.  The  Em- 
press is  too  ill  to  think  or  care.  When  Bestushev-Rjumin 
learns  the  Grand  Duchess  is  dead,  he  will  curry  favor  with 
you.  What  he  wants  to  do  is  reign,  it  does  not  matter 
through  whom.  You  can  bend  him  to  your  will.  You 
can  stop  the  siege." 

The  Grand  Duke  broke  out  into  shrill  and  idiotic  laugh- 
ter: 

"  What  a  good  joke  on  her !  Te-he-he-he  —  What 
a  good  joke  —  to  kidnap  your  own  wife !  Te-he-he-he  — 
And  yet  how  is  that  possible?  How  can  one  steal  from 
one's  self?  There  is  something  wrong  about  this !  You 
have  blundered.  How  am  I  going  to  tell  her  what  a  good 
joke  I  have  played  upon  her  if  you  have  killed  her? 
Why  did  you  not  think  of  that?  I  wish  now  that  you 
had  not  done  that!  You  see  I  wanted  a  chance  to  tell 
her!" 

"  Will  it  not  give  you  just  as  much  pleasure  to  send 
Bestushev-Rjumin  to  Siberia  when  the  power  is  in  your 
hands?  That  is  a  more  important  thing  to  do.  Fred- 
erick the  Great  will  help  and  stand  by  you." 

"Will  he?     Did  he  say  he  would?" 

"  He  did." 

"  Good !  For  me  the  will  of  Frederick  the  Great  is 
the  will  of  God!  "  He  kissed  the  ring  on  his  finger,  that 
was  so  large  that  it  was  threatening  to  fall  off. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  continued,  "  that  we  might  have  bribed 
the  Grand  Duchess  instead  of  killing  her.  It  would  not 

234 


have  been  so  wicked  and  it  might  have  done  just  as  well. 
I  might  have  enjoyed  it  better." 

"  I  think,  perhaps,  bribing  might  have  been  possible," 
agreed  the  French  spy.  "  They  say  she  borrowed  fabu- 
lous sums  from  England.  That  shows  money  would  have 
been  acceptable.  France  could  be  her  banker  just  as  well. 
I  knew  her  mother  in  Paris.  She  is  a  good  deal  like 
her  —  in  double  dealing.  '  An  apple  never  falls  far  from 
the  tree.'  " 

;'  The  French  gentleman  is  right,"  laughed  Countess 
Bruce,  with  her  malicious  tingling  laughter.  "  There  are 
not  many  doors  that  shut  so  tightly  a  golden  hammer 
cannot  open  them." 

"  I  agree  with  you,  Countess." 

"  And  Count  Bestushev,  could  he  not  be  bribed,  too?  " 

"  Could  he!  "  exclaimed  the  Prussian,  angrily.  "  He 
would  sell  the  body  of  the  Empress,  if  he  could  make 
up  his  mind  how  much  to  ask  for  it." 

"  I  do  not  agree  with  you  there,"  objected  the  French- 
man. 

"  Where  his  duty  is  concerned  the  Ghostly  Chancellor 
is  unapproachable.  Among  the  men  who  are  intriguing 
for  fame  and  gold,  he  is  the  only  one  who  works  with  an 
honest  heart." 

'You  are  wrong!  "  indignantly  replied  the  Prussian. 
"  Bestushev-Rjumin  has  the  nature  of  a  criminal.  He 
will  stop  at  nothing  to  gain  an  end  — " 

'  Yes,  yes,  my  good  friend !  But  that  end  must  be  for 
Russia." 

"  Of  course  it  would  have  been  less  work  to  bribe 
her,"  interrupted  the  Grand  Duke,  with  his  idiotic  laugh- 
ter, having  paid  no  attention  to  the  conversation.  "  But 
it  would  not  have  been  so  much  fun.  Te-he-he-he  — 

235 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

Think  of  kidnapping  your  own  wife  —  and  she  did  not 
know  it !  Te-he-he-he  —  How  disappointed  I  am  that 
I  cannot  tell  her  about  it !  I  do  not  see  why  you  did  not 
arrange  it  so  that  I  could  tell  her  about  it !  What  in  the 
name  of  all  the  devils  at  once  are  your  teeth  chattering 
like  that  for,  Narcissus,  you  fool?  Stop  it.  Stop  it,  I 
say." 

'  You  would  not  care  anything  about  the  joke  you 
played  upon  her,  if  you  knew  what  I  saw  a  few  nights 
ago." 

"What  did  you  see,  Elizabeth  Woronzov?" 

"  In  the  lightning  that  came  with  an  autumn  storm,  I 
twice  saw  the  Slavic  Venus  I  That  means  change  of 
rulers." 

The  Grand  Duke  began  to  tremble  pitifully  and  turn 
white. 

"  The  Slavic  Venus !     The  Slavic  Venus !  " 

"What  is  the  matter?  What  are  you  afraid  of?'* 
inquired  the  French  spy,  in  great  surprise. 

"  Yes,"  joined  in  Countess  Bruce,  ready  as  ever  to 
affect  a  situation  unpleasantly,  with  her  unrestrainable 
propensity  for  mischief  making. 

"  And  Elizabeth  Petrovna  has  fallen  into  the  strangest 
of  superstitions !  She  remains  for  hours  in  contemplation 
before  the  statue  of  a  heathen  divinity  which  she  has  had 
brought  from  Kiev.  It  is  that  ancient  Venus  which  her 
father,  Peter  the  Great,  loved.  You  cannot  imagine  her 
devotion  I  She  talks  to  it.  The  ladies  of  her  entourage 
are  horror  stricken.  It  is  pagan  idolatry!  " 

"  You  told  me  that  just  to  frighten  me,  to  make  me  un- 
happy. You  know  you  did !  That  is  the  way  you  all  do. 
I  enjoy  my  enemies  as  well  as  I  do  my  friends.  They 
have  this  advantage,  anyway:  I  can  get  away  from  them. 
But  my  friends  are  always  with  me." 

236 


MUHR'S  ON  THE  MORSKOI 

"What  is  the  matter  with  him?  What  does  he 
mean?  " 

"  He  cannot  help  it,"  explained  Elizabeth  Woronzov. 
"  It  is  in  his  blood.  It  comes  from  Peter  the  Great. 
He  said  that  no  one  would  rule  Russia  except  a  favorite 
of  Venus.  Was  he  not  right?  Think  of  him !  The  life 
he  led!  And  our  blessed  Empress,  Elizabeth  Petrovna, 
was  fabulously  lovely  in  her  youth.  And  what  a  life  has 
been  hers  1  " 

The  Prussian  spy,  mindful  of  his  courtly  training, 
bowed  gallantly  to  Elizabeth  Woronzov. 

"  I  understand  now  how  worthy  you  are  to  be  the  next 
Empress." 

Her  foolish  little  heart  had  already  believed  that  it 
held  a  throne.  The  round  eyes  of  Countess  Bruce 
twinkled  with  malice. 

"  Cheer  up,  your  Royal  Highness !  "  urged  the  French- 
man. "  The  vision  of  Venus  means  that  all  will  go  well 
with  you  and  your  goddess  of  love  —  Mademoiselle 
Woronzov!  " 

"  We  must  not  waste  time  like  this,  in  courtly  speaking, 
my  French  friend.  We  must  make  plans  for  the  possibil- 
ity that  our  companions  did  not  succeed  in  making  way 
with  the  Grand  Duchess." 

"  You  seem  to  forget  —  all  of  you, — "  interrupted  the 
Grand  Duke,  pettishly,  "  that  she  has  sins  as  well  as  other 
people." 

"  But  there  is  no  use  in  discussing  sins,  unless  they  are 
sins  that  are  disapproved  of.  Hers,  my  dear  Duke,  your 
Russian  people  love." 

"  That's  just  the  way  you  talk !  Who  could  be  ex- 
pected to  understand  it?  When  she  does  wrong  it's  right. 
And  when  I  do  right  it's  wrong.  How  can  any  one  be 
expected  to  keep  his  senses  in  a  country  where  all  things 

237 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

are  upside  down?  And  the  ridiculous  part  about  this 
unpleasant  discussion  is  that  she  is  dead.  Narcis,  if  you 
do  not  stop  shaking  and  chattering  like  an  ape,  I  will  give 
you  something  to  shake  for!  " 

Again,  the  hand  of  the  silent  soldier  sought  the  sword. 
A  pause  in  the  conversation  followed,  to  be  broken  by 
shrill  idiotic  laughter,  that  made  his  hearers  shudder,  just 
as  his  helpless  oath  had  done. 

"  Te-he-he-he —  Is  it  not  a  good  joke  on  her?  To 
kidnap  her !  And  when  she  did  not  know  it.  To  abduct 
one's  own  wife!  Not  many  men  have  done  that! 
Te-he-he-he-he  —  But,  if  she  is  dead,  you  see  I  cannot 
tell  her  how  I  got  the  best  of  her.  That  is  a  mean  shame, 
because  she  thinks  that  she  is  cleverer  than  I  am.  You 
did  it  on  purpose  to  keep  me  from  telling  her  about  it." 

"  Come,  come,"  urged  Elizabeth  Woronzov.  '  We 
must  go  back  to  the  palace  and  dress  for  the  second  part 
of  the  ball. 

"  Oh!  Oh!  —  is  it  not  a  good  joke  on  her!  Te-he- 
he-he  —  Come,  Narcis,  you  shivering  idiot  —  we  are 
going  now." 

When  they  were  outside  and  had  come  in  sight  of  the 
palace,  the  Grand  Duke  paused  without  speaking  and 
looked  up  at  the  great  dark  mass  with  the  angry,  flaring 
lights  that  deepened  into  blackness  the  space  that  sur- 
rounded it,  making  the  serene  stars  farther  away  and 
fainter.  He  hesitated  to  enter  it.  He  was  frightened 
and  trembling.  As  they  approached  a  side  door  which 
connected  directly  with  the  private  apartments  of  Eliza- 
beth Woronzov,  the  frightened  fool  managed  to  find  his 
tongue. 

"  My  good  master,"  he  pleaded,  "  let  me  speak  a  word 
to  you  before  we  enter." 

The  Grand  Duke  looked  at  him  questioningly. 

238 


MUHR'S  ON  THE  MORSKOI 

"  Wait  a  minute !  Wait  just  a  minute !  "  He  paused 
again  helplessly  as  if  for  breath,  and  then  gasped,  "  The 
Grand  Duchess  —  is  not  dead!  " 

"What  —  you  fool?  How  do  you  know?"  they 
called  in  chorus. 

"  That  young  soldier  who  came  into  Muhr's  and  whom 
we  left  sitting  there  —  the  one  with  the  papers  —  was  the 
Grand  Duchess." 

"  Can  you  trust  him?  "  queried  the  surprised  spies. 

"  Perfectly !  In  a  matter  of  this  kind  he  could  not  be 
deceived.  Then,  that's  what  you  were  shaking  for  — 
and  couldn't  find  your  tongue !  Now,  my  friends,  do  you 
not  see  how  superior  is  the  fool  to  the  wise  man?  The 
fool  finds  of  his  own  will  what  the  wise  man  seeks  for 
a  lifetime.  My  French  friend  here  —  and  my  Prussian 
friend  —  were  sent  to  Russia  because  of  their  wisdom. 
But  only  you  —  Narcissus,  my  fool  —  found  out  what 
they  were  sent  to  find." 

"  Shall  we  go  back,  your  Highness?  " 

"  What  a  question !  "  he  thundered  with  an  oath. 
"  She  must  not  elude  me  to-night.  Go  back !  Go  back 
at  once !  It  will  be  easy.  As  soon  as  you  enter  bolt  the 
door  so  that  no  one  can  come  to  her  assistance." 

"  But  we  two  cannot  return,"  replied  the  spies.  "  It 
would  cause  suspicion  for  us  to  be  seen  there  so  quickly. 
There  would  be  no  apparent  cause  for  such  conduct." 

"  But  she  must  be  made  way  with  to-night,"  insisted 
the  Grand  Duke. 

"  Never  fear,  your  Highness,"  they  answered.  "  You 
go  on  to  the  palace !  We  will  go  straight  to  the  Dresden 
Woman's  where  our  confederates  are  waiting.  We  will 
send  two  men  from  there  to  dispatch  her  quickly.  We 
pledge  you  our  word  that  within  an  hour  she  shall  be 
beneath  the  water  of  the  Neva." 

239 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

"  Do  not  blunder  again !  I  warn  you  that  it  will  not 
be  well  for  you !  " 

During  this  conversation  there  was  some  of  the  tone 
of  command  in  the  voice  of  the  Grand  Duke  that  his 
elders  had  known  in  his  imperial  grandparent  of  Russia. 
But  it  was  only  for  a  pitiful  instant,  like  a  trembling 
shadow  flung  upon  a  wall. 

'  When  your  Highness  enters  the  ballroom  for  the 
tableaux,  do  it  with  the  assurance  that  things  are  as  you 
wish." 

No  sooner  had  the  Grand  Duke  and  his  party  left  the 
Coffee  House  than  the  Princess  Dashkov  entered.  She 
was  breathless  and  excited.  The  gold  coins  of  her  peas- 
ant's head  dress  jingled  discordantly. 

"  How  did  you  get  away  to  come  here?"  questioned 
Catherine  Alexevna. 

"  I  did  not.     I  just  came." 

"How  are  things  outside?     What  is  going  on?" 

"Excitement!  Confusion!  The  machinery  of  in- 
trigue is  in  full  swing.  The  city  is  filled  with  spies  and 
secret  messengers  of  all  nations." 

"  How  is  my  double,  Nicholas  Murievich?  " 

Princess  Dashkov  paused  a  moment  to  weigh  her 
words  before  replying. 

'  That  is  what  I  came  to  tell  you.  Two  spies  lured 
him  from  the  ball  by  promising  to  give  him  proofs  — 
which  of  course  they  did  not  have  —  that  you  are  the 
daughter  of  Frederick  the  Great.  I  suppose  by  this  time 
that  he  is  —  is  — " 

"Dead!" 

"  I  suppose  so.  I  could  not  save  him.  If  I  had,  it 
would  have  meant  death  and  disclosure  for  you.  I  did 
not  give  him  your  message.  But  there  is  no  time  to 
grieve,  your  Highness!  We  must  get  away  at  once. 

240 


MUHR'S  ON  THE  MORSKOI 

The  Prussians  plan  to  kill  you  to-night  —  here.  There 
is  not  a  moment  to  lose.  Orlov  is  waiting  with  a  carriage 
on  the  other  side  of  this  building.  We  drove  here  with  a 
speed  that  surpassed  the  wind.  We  must  return  as 
quickly.  We  must  be  in  the  palace  and  dressed  for  the 
last  part  of  the  ball,  before  the  Prussian  party  can  find 
out  that  they  have  abducted  the  wrong  person.  Then 
only  will  you  be  safe.  They  may  be  back  here  any  mo- 
ment to  search  for  you.  Come !  Come !  " 

They  left  hurriedly  by  the  little  door  on  the  left,  which 
was  the  waiters'  place  of  entrance,  and  made  their  way 
through  the  dim  kitchen  to  the  rear  of  the  building  where 
Orlov  waited.  They  drove  to  the  palace  by  a  round- 
about road,  went  in  by  a  secret  entrance,  and  made  their 
way  unseen  by  any  one  to  the  apartments  of  the  Grand 
Duchess. 


241 


CHAPTER  XI 

CLOSE   OF   THE   NIGHT 

The  women  of  the  court  had  gone  to  change  their  cos- 
tumes and  the  men  to  smoke,  so  the  gilded  spacious  salon 
of  the  slim  white  candles  and  the  garden  of  the  tropic 
flowers  were  empty.  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin  alone  was 
in  the  great  garden,  dimmed  slightly,  but  made  more 
like  a  scene  from  fairyland  by  the  floating  smoke  of 
candles,  and  fluttered  over  by  gorgeous  winged  birds. 

His  face  still  wore  its  expression  of  triumph  and  ela- 
tion and  his  sunken  old  eyes  glowed  cruelly.  He  walked 
about  like  a  specter  beneath  the  flowering  trees,  enjoying 
with  fine  appreciation  the  beauty  of  the  setting,  and  the 
contrast  which  he  himself  presented  in  this  vision  of 
spring.  He  talked  to  himself  according  to  his  habit  and 
enjoyed  in  solitude  the  first  fruit  of  his  triumph. 

"  How  I  have  enjoyed  life,  delicately,  sensitively,  as  a 
gourmand  sips  his  wine!  There  is  nothing  that  has  not 
given  me  pleasure.  I  have  loved  clouds  and  flowers  and 
the  perfume  of  fruit.  I  have  even  found  beauty  in  the 
vague,  soft  sadness  of  the  north.  For  it  is  true  that  sad- 
ness permeates  the  north,  just  as  prayer  permeates  the 
Orient.  Sadness  falls  softly  with  its  soft  falling  snows. 
It  rises  softly  with  the  pale  and  gentle  mists  from  its  mys- 
terious waters.  It  touches  one  fleetingly,  intangibly,  re- 
gretfully, with  the  wind  of  summer.  It  floats  over  its 
murmuring  waters  like  a  spirit  trying  to  manifest  itself 
again.  It  drops  down  from  high,  slow-circling  bird 
wings.  It  vibrates  from  its  dim,  mist-laden  moon.  It 

242 


CLOSE  OF  THE  NIGHT 

shivers  upon  its  sparce,  gray-green  grasses.  Even  its 
flowers  are  pearled  over  with  tears.  The  rain,  too,  I 
have  thought  is  sa-d'der  here  than  elsewhere.  And  yet  in 
it  all  I  have  found  beauty. 

"  I  wish  that  I  could  have  lived  many  lives !  One  life 
is  not  enough  for  any  man.  I  might  have  been  a  creative 
artist,  I  have  loved  beauty  so.  ' 

"  *  My  heart  beats  with  greater  violence  than  the 
hearts  of  the  Corybantes,'  says  Plato  in  The  Banquet. 
Just  so  has  my  own  heart  beaten  at  the  outspread  beauty 
of  nature.  But  I  have  hidden  my  joy  from  the  world  to 
ward  off  its  hatred.  The  world  does  not  persecute  the 
weak,  or  the  poor,  or  the  humble  with  such  bitter  pleasure 
as  it  persecutes  the  joyous.  There  are  rooms  within  my 
heart  that  are  furnished  for  me  alone.  No  one  has  seen 
within  them.  The  eyes  of  the  world  are  death  dealing. 
Never  let  them  look  within  your  heart!  I  am  old  and 
bent  and  unlovely.  No  one  would  think  to  look  at  this 
dried  up,  ugly  old  man  that  the  copper-colored  moons 
of  spring  sway  within  his  heart  like  lilies  in  some  Syrian 
garden.  No  one  would  think  that  the  pale,  mist-floating 
moons  of  late  autumn  rise  there,  like  the  gray  iris,  that 
ghost  of  a  perished  joy.  In  my  heart  there  are  bits  of  the 
beauty  of  all  the  world.  It  is  a  kaleidoscope  of  joyous 
memory,  turning  and  showing  me  changing  pictures  at 
my  will. 

'  There  are  mornings  when  I  was  young  —  long,  long 
ago !  —  in  the  sweet,  fresh  English  country,  when  dew 
glistened  on  the  roses  and  the  skylark  sang.  There  are 
nights  in  dim,  Flemish  cities,  whose  souls  are  mysterious 
bells  that  call  across  mysterious  waters.  There  are 
autumns  at  the  vintage  season  in  merry  villages  of  the 
Rhine,  and  dance  and  laughter.  There  are  moonlight 
nights  in  Little  Russia  when  the  nightingale  made  music 

243 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

and  the  steppe  was  a  silver  sea.  There  are  black  and 
lonely  midnights  in  a  cloister  that  looks  down  upon  the 
White  Sea's  frozen  waves,  paling  slowly  to  the  pallid  des- 
olation of  a  polar  dawn,  in  that  cloister  where  Ivan  the 
Terrible  went  to  pray.  A  man  is  just  as  great  as  the 
stored-up  joy  of  his  heart.  As  the  miner  separates  gold 
from  the  dirt,  so  should  man  separate  joy  from  the  dirt 
of  memory  and  of  living,  and  preserve  to  make  rich  his 
soul.  It  is  joy  that  painted  the  wings  of  these  tropic 
birds  that  flutter  above  my  head.  It  is  joy  that  made 
lovely  the  blossoms  of  these  oleander  and  orange  trees. 
And  it  is  joy  that  created  this  luxurious  atmosphere  of 
pleasure  where  the  petted  children  of  Russia  are  playing 
to-night.  Joy  is  God's  greatest  gift. 

"  I  am  old.  I  am  hideous  to  look  upon.  I  am  shriv- 
eled and  twisted  by  the  years.  I  often  wonder  what  this 
soul  of  mine  can  be  doing  in  this  old  man's  body.  I  feel 
as  if  I  ought  to  look  like  the  picture  of  an  old  man  in  his 
youth !  But  there  is  something  of  the  spring  still  dwell- 
ing in  my  heart. 

"  I  have  loved  beauty  and  science  and  art  and  power 
instead  of  women.  I  have  found  them  better  worth  the 
loving.  Beauty  and  power  and  knowledge  are  perfected 
things.  While  women  —  Indeed  I  have  agreed  often 
with  Mahomet,  who  said  that  they  had  no  soul.  But 
Mahomet  did  not  love  them  any  better  than  I.  It  may 
be  that  love  when  it  is  great  and  genuine  is  a  philosopher's 
stone  that  possesses  the  power  of  turning  common  things 
to  gold.  To  love  them,  perhaps,  would  mean  to  find 
them  divine.  Love  is  a  great  maker  of  divinity." 

He  paused  in  his  walk  and  his  monologue  and  the  spec- 
tral candle  smoke  focussed  its  center  of  mystic  whirling 
motion  about  him.  Thus  might  he  look  if  he  were  dis- 
embodied. 

244 


CLOSE  OF  THE  NIGHT 

"  Life !  Life !  It  is  as  beautiful  and  as  wonderful 
and  as  unstable  as  the  smoke." 

He  began  again  his  restless  wandering  beneath  the 
flowering  trees  and  his  mood  changed  to  one  of  contem- 
plation of  the  present  and  its  demands.  His  eyes  lost 
the  inspired  look  of  the  dreamer  and  became  subtle  and 
cruel  and  sharp  pointed. 

'  To-night,  I  hope,  will  mark  the  last  of  Great  Prussia ! 
If  Frederick  and  I  could  live  long  enough,  I  would  teach 
him  to  enjoy  the  safety  of  insignificance.  He  will  not 
try  again  to  bait  the  Russian  bear.  Not  so  bad,  Bestu- 
shev !  Not  so  bad ! 

"It  is  his  own  daughter  (So  they  say!  But  I  have 
never  believed  it)  who  will  give  the  signal  for  his  retire- 
ment. Through  her  I  will  send  him  my  final  word.  Not 
so  bad,  Bestushev!  Not  so  bad!  But  I  shall  miss  him! 
He  has  been  a  satisfactory  enemy.  An  enemy  worthy 
of  me!  He  has  appreciated  what  I  have  done;  its  sub- 
tlety, its  artistry.  Not  many  could  do  that!  Next  to 
being  able  to  create  one's  self  is  the  ability  to  appreciate 
the  things  that  other  people  create.  I  almost  love  mine 
enemy  —  as  Holy  Writ  commands. 

"  Ought  I  not?  He  is  the  only  man  in  Europe  who  can 
measure  me.  I  should  love  him  as  a  coquette  loves 
her  mirror.  Is  he  not  the  mirror  of  my  success?  Per- 
haps, God  made  him  merely  to  mirror  my  greatness.  I 
can  truthfully  say  that  he  has  been  a  delightful  enemy! 
Appreciative,  firm,  ready,  dangerous,  daring!  He  has 
been  an  ideal  background  for  my  genius. 

'  Yes,  yes,  he  has  been  a  delightful  enemy.  If  I  only 
could  have  taught  him  to  jest  with  death  —  to  mix  humor 
with  crime,  he  would  almost  have  equalled  me.  Almost ! 
As  it  is,  I  shall  miss  him.  Well,  well  —  Some  people 

245 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

live  and  some  people  philosophize  about  life.  Frederick 
has  philosophized  too  greatly.  Well,  well  — 

"  He  ought  to  see  his  so-called  daughter,  ought  he  not? 
Ha !  ha !  ha !  —  He  thinks  that  she  is  still  just  a  little 
German  girl.  Well,  well  —  not  exactly.  I  should  say 
not  exactly.  Well,  well  —  between  the  little  Sophie  of 
Zerbst  whom  he  used  to  know  and  the  Grand  Duchess  of 
Russia,  Catherine  Alexevna,  there  is  a  difference  which 
even  Frederick,  my  friend,  could  see.  Well,  well  —  and 
I  am  the  cause  of  it!  I  educated  her.  I  made  her  as 
I  wished.  Good  material  though.  Well,  well  — 

"  Frederick  thought  that  if  diplomacy  and  gold  failed 
he  would  use  force,  did  he  not?  He  thought  he  would 
make  things  as  he  wished  them  —  being  the  earthly  rep- 
resentative of  God.  What  a  fool  I  made  of  him !  Ha ! 
ha  1  ha !  I  would  exile  to  Siberia  the  greenest  fledgeling 
under  me  who  dared  to  bungle.  That  is  why  I  sent  her 
to  Muhr's  on  the  Morskoi.  The  old  Russian  bear  only 
shuts  one  eye  when  he  goes  to  sleep.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  I 
shall  have  to  jest  gently  —  very  gently  —  with  Frederick 
about  that.  I  shall  tell  him  not  to  despair.  The  only 
time  to  do  that  with  reason  is  when  one  is  dead,  because 
life  is  a  thing  of  change.  I  shall  suggest  to  him  that  there 
is  really  no  cause  for  disappointment,  because  expecta- 
tion and  realization  are  seldom  on  speaking  terms. 

"  Yet," —  and  for  a  moment  his  face  bleached  with  the 
quick  pallor  of  fear — "what  if  she  should  fail  me? 
Ah  !  —  my  blessed  master,"  looking  at  the  medallion  por- 
trait of  Peter  the  Great  that  hung  suspended  from  its 
chain  of  jet,  "  to-night  the  future  of  the  country  you 
loved  depends  upon  the  fickle  will  of  a  woman  and  a  frail 
old  man.  I  feel  very  old  to-night.  I  am  old  — 

"  But  sKe  will  not  fail  me !  "  The  battle  tempered 
will  that  had  never  met  failure  reasserted  itself.  "  She 

246 


CLOSE  OF  THE  NIGHT 

is  not  fickle.  She  is  not  changeable.  Her  mind  is  cold 
and  critical.  Besides,  she  has  the  cunning  and  the  de- 
pendable calm  of  women  who  have  no  imagination." 


In  a  few  moments  the  Grand  Duchess  entered  the 
Winter  Garden  and  crossed  to  where  Count  Bestushev- 
Rjumin  was  standing.  She  wore  a  white  silk  coat  that 
covered  and  concealed  her  body.  A  white  veil  was  wound 
about  her  face  and  throat. 

"  Did  you  call  me,  Count  Bestushev?  " 

"  No,  not  exactly,  Catherine  Alexevna.  I  merely 
wished  that  you  were  here.  But  you  must  retire  before 
the  others  come.  I  do  not  wish  anyone  to  see  you  before 
the  tableaux.  The  Prussian  party  must  think  that  they 
succeeded  and  that  you  are  dead.  I  am  counting  upon 
the  disabling  effect  of  surprise  upon  them." 

He  looked  at  her  fixedly  before  continuing.  It  was 
evident  that  he  had  some  influence  over  her  of  long  stand- 
ing that  might  not  be  explained. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  have  come,  Catherine  Alexevna. 
We  have  need  of  each  other  to-night  —  you  and  I.  I 
need  your  support." 

"  Have  I  ever  refused  it?" 

"No  —  no  —  of  course  not!  And  I  know  that  you 
paid  no  attention  to  those  silly  stories  of  Frederick  the 
Great." 

"What  of  them?     Are  they  true?" 

"  Hm !  Hm !  Well  —  Well !  —  It  was  the  gos- 
sip of  the  courts  when  you  were  a  baby.  But  of  whom  do 
they  not  gossip?  Everyone  brought  up  at  court  has  sev- 
eral fathers.  Should  not  a  Grand  Duchess  of  Russia 
have  just  as  many  as  the  rest?  " 

"  You  jest,  Count  Bestushev." 

247 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

"  That  you  should  be  influenced  by  such  silly  stories  is 
subject  for  jest." 

"  But  my  support?     What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  This.  If  her  Majesty  lives  the  week  out,  I  shall  be 
sent  into  exile.  If  she  does  not  live  the  week  out  and 
the  Grand  Duke  comes  into  power  —  for  even  a  little 
while  —  my  fate  is  the  same  —  exile.  The  Grand  Duke 
cannot  —  must  not  —  reign.  If  he  did,  your  life  and 
mine  would  be  at  stake.  There  would  be  no  talk,  then, 
of  exile.  You  must  seize  the  power  and  put  him  out  of 
the  way.  Put  him  in  a  safe  place  where  there  is  —  no 
return !  Then,  recall  me !  When  I  am  gone,  the  fate  of 
Russia  will  depend  on  you.  I  give  it  into  your  hands  just 
as  Peter  the  Great  gave  it  into  mine." 

"  But  the  crime,  Count  Bestushev  —  the  awful  crime 
that  will  be  upon  my  soul !  " 

"  There  will  be  no  crime !  Self-preservation  is  a  law 
of  nature.  It  is  your  life  against  the  Grand  Duke's. 
Choose !  Your  visit  to  Muhr's  to-night  proved  that  to 
you." 

"  Why  is  it  necessary  —  so  often  —  that  crime  should 
be  the  accessory  of  power?  " 

"  A  law  of  nature  with  which  you  and  I  have  nothing 
to  do,  Catherine  Alexevna.  A  law  for  whose  continuance 
our  approval  is  not  necessary. 

'  The  individual  is  of  no  consequence  to  nature. 

"  Use  your  mind  1  Use  your  mind  1  That  is  the  thing 
to  do. 

"  To  go  to  an  excess  of  virtue  is  just  as  blameworthy 
as  to  go  to  an  excess  of  evil,  because  in  either  case  bal- 
ance —  which  is  the  power  of  importance  —  is  upset. 
Thought,  Catherine  Alexevna,  is  frequently  successful  in 
banishing  the  fears  of  fancy.  You  would  really  be  a 

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CLOSE  OF  THE  NIGHT 

greater  murderess  if  you  did  not  kill  him.  Do  you  un- 
derstand? " 

Catherine  Alexevna  looked  up  at  him  with  fascinated 
eyes.  The  old  mental  magic  had  reasserted  its  power 
over  her. 

"  Yes,  Count  Bestushev,  I  understand." 

"  Great  virtues,  Catherine  Alexevna,  carried  to  excess 
in  a  sovereign  are  really  dangerous.  A  sovereign  must 
be  impersonal  and  live  for  universal  goals.  The  impor- 
tant thing  is  to  know  what  is  best  for  the  people,  and  then 
pursue  it  relentlessly." 

"  No  woman  is  more  brave  than  I.  It  seems  to  me 
now,  when  I  hear  your  voice  again,  that  I  have  never 
feared." 

"  That  is  what  I  like  to  hear.  You  see  the  unde- 
veloped possibilities  of  Russia.  I  have  taught  you  to  see. 
I  have  given  you  the  power  to  project  yourself  imper- 
sonally. We  are  living  in  a  difficult  age,  Catherine 
Alexevna.  The  classic  world  is  dying.  Its  beliefs,  its 
ideals  are  breaking  up  like  the  ice  in  our  Russian  rivers  in 
spring.  A  new  and  a  very  different  civilization  —  where 
all  things  will  change  —  is  right  at  hand  —  just  over  the 
crest  of  the  century.  I  feel  the  instability  of  the  time 
in  which  we  live.  I  can  catch  faintly  the  roar  of  that 
new,  modern  world  which  will  destroy  all  that  I  have 
known  and  loved.  And  yet  I  wish  that  I  could  live  to 
see  it. 

"  Ah !  Catherine  Alexevna,  that  I  were  young  with 
you  —  that  I  could  live  on  and  on,  not  for  myself  alone, 
but  for  Russia  —  and  for  you  !  That  I  could  live  to  be 
a  part  of  the  great  Russia  of  the  days  to  come ! 

"  Perhaps  death  is  not  what  we  think  it  after  all. 
Perhaps  we  go  on  and  on,  and  cast  off  body  after  body 

249 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

and  are  young  again.  That  is  the  great  tragedy  —  to 
have  to  die  —  the  great  tragedy,  just  when  one  has 
learned  enough  to  live.  That  I  could  live  on!  That  I 
could  throw  off  age  like  a  garment  and  be  young  again 
with  you !  " 

The  glowing  salon  beyond  ached  with  the  sad  emptiness 
of  regret.  The  tropic  birds  looked  at  them  with  their 
jewel-bright,  penetrating  eyes.  The  vibrant  silence 
weighed  heavily  upon  the  flowers.  But  the  mood  van- 
ished as  quickly  as  it  came,  and  happiness  swept  back  again 
to  vitalize  the  silence. 

'  You  will  live  on,  Great  Chancellor,  in  me.  Are  not 
the  souls  of  us  as  one?  Besides,  who  knows  what  death 
is?  It  may  be  an  ever  present  and  more  powerful  ex- 
istence not  made  visible  in  flesh." 

'  Yours  will  be  a  great  life,  my  love !  And  I  may 
be  living  it  with  you  in  the  double  life  of  the  soul.  You 
embrace  in  yourself  the  world  that  is  passing  and  the 
modern  world  that  is  at  hand.  You  have  the  physical 
strength  of  antique  races,  and  the  trained  and  discriminat- 
ing senses  of  to-day.  I  will  make  you  superior  to  dis- 
integrating change  by  something  that  I  possess  here," 
tapping  his  brow  significantly  with  his  finger.  "  You 
will  be  the  last  of  the  great  past  that  had  the  daring  and 
the  inclination  to  live.  And  in  living  you  will  symbolize 
Russia." 

He  paused  to  measure  the  effect  of  his  words  upon  her, 
and  to  enjoy  critically  the  moment's  triumph,  and  the 
night  with  its  fairy  setting.  And  he  thought,  too,  how 
characteristic  it  was,  that  neither  love  nor  youth  with  its 
seductive  charm,  nor  pity  or  kindness,  could  move  her 
like  the  cold  things  of  the  intellect. 

"  But  to-night,  Catherine  Alexevna,  you  must  give  your 

250 


CLOSE  OF  THE  NIGHT 

pledge  to  the  people.  It  cannot  be  deferred !  The  mo- 
ment has  come.  Your  costume  and  Princess  Dashkov's 
are  in  your  dressing  room.  Everything  is  ready!  " 

As  he  watched  her  walk  away,  he  noticed  that  her 
figure  had  that  appearance  of  dominance  that  his  pres- 
ence seldom  failed  to  give. 

The  others  reentered  gayly  in  court  costume.  The 
George  Salon  filled  rapidly  with  a  brilliant  and  eager 
assemblage  which  overflowed  into  the  Winter  Garden. 

Count  Bestushev-Rjumin  stood  silent  and  motionless, 
alone  in  one  corner,  like  a  black  and  ominous  bird  of 
prey,  looking  scornfully  on. 

Count  Ivan  Shuvalov,  marshal  of  the  court,  entered 
and  inspected  carefully  the  dress  and  the  coat  of  the 
Russians.  Subanski,  Razumovsky,  two  spies  and  Greg- 
ory Orlov  were  to  the  front  of  the  Garden. 

;'  What  in  the  world  is  he  doing,  the  marshal  of  the 
court?"  queried  the  Prussian  spy,  with  ill-restrained 
eagerness. 

'Yes,  what  is  he  doing?"  echoed  the  French  spy. 
"  Whatever  it  is,  it  seems  to  concern  the  Russians  alone." 

"  He  is  finding  out,"  explained  Subanski,  "  if  their 
costumes  are  new  or  old." 

"How  can  he?  What  do  you  mean?"  urged  the 
Prussian. 

"  Is  not  that  one  of  your  Russian  jests,  which  you  say 
no  one  can  understand?  "  the  Frenchman  remembered 
to  retaliate. 

"  Our  blessed  Empress,"  explained  Orlov,  "  in  order 
that  her  court  may  be  the  most  splendid  in  Christendom, 
issued  an  ukase  that  each  costume  worn  at  court  be 
stamped  with  the  date  of  its  make.  They  are  permitted 
to  be  worn  only  a  certain  number  of  times." 

251 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

"Extraordinary!     Most  extraordinary!" 

"  It  is  not  extraordinary,  my  French  friends." 

'  You  do  not  really  mean  it,  do  you?  " 

"  Of  course  I  mean  it!  "  affirmed  Subanski.  "  In  this 
way,  you  see,  no  one  can  wear  anything  that  is  old.  We 
are  sure  to  be  in  fashion.  Very  important  I  consider 
it." 

"  It  would  be  a  good  thing,"  broke  in  Orlov,  "  for  you 
Prussians  to  imitate." 

"  I  should  think  it  would,"  agreed  Subanski.  '  They 
say  your  Emperor  never  owned  but  one  state  costume  in 
his  life,  and  that  he  is  wearing  it  now." 

"  What  was  it  he  said  about  clothes,  Gregory  Orlov? 
Tell  me !  "  begged  Razumovsky,  one  trembling  old  hand 
behind  his  ear. 

The  marshal  of  the  court  approached  Razumovsky 
and  began  to  make  ready  for  inspection. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  insult  me?  I  will  not  permit  it.  I 
never  wore  a  suit  more  than  thrice.  It  makes  me  weep." 

The  foolish,  supersensitive  old  beau  pulled  out  one  of 
the  new  foulard  handkerchiefs  and  put  it  to  his  eyes 
affectedly. 

"  You  did  get  one,  did  you  not,  Razumovsky?  " 

"  I  went  to  your  importer,  Subanski !  Think  what  an 
honor  for  him  —  to  be  visited  by  the  first  gentleman  of 
Russia!  I  drove  there  and  back  just  as  fast  as  I  could. 
I  put  the  subject  before  him  this  way.  I  said :  '  The 
blessed  Empress  may  die  at  any  moment.  Therefore, 
I  have  driven  from  court  to  visit  you  —  and  at  this  hour. 
I  would  be  the  chief  mourner,  would  I  not?  How  would 
it  look  for  a  man  occupying  an  exalted  position  like  mine 
to  weep  upon  an  old-fashioned  handkerchief?  The 
court  would  be  disgraced.'  He  was  touched,  of  course. 
Anyone  would  have  been !  In  addition,  he  was  so  moved 

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CLOSE  OF  THE  NIGHT 

by  my  eloquence  that  he  gave  me  enough  to  last  through 
to-night  —  and  the  funeral." 

"Good  for  him!" 

"  A  ball  and  a  funeral  are,  Razumovsky,  the  two  most 
important  state  events  in  Russia." 

"  Of  course !  And  they  both  ought  to  be  well  dressed, 
ought  they  not,  Gregory  Orlov?  I  knew  that  Gregory 
Orlov  would  agree  with  me." 

The  Grand  Duke  entered  with  Elizabeth  Woronzov, 
followed  by  Countess  Bruce.  Their  faces  wore  expres- 
sions of  triumph.  The  bearing  of  the  Grand  Duke  was 
almost  regal.  He  felt  sure  he  was  rid  of  Catherine 
Alexevna,  and  within  reach  of  the  freedom  he  desired. 
The  news  had  secretly  made  its  way  among  the  guests 
that  favored  Prussia  and  Peter  the  Duke,  that  the  Grand 
Duchess  had  been  spirited  away  and  that  she  would 
never  return.  The  air  was  electric  with  suppression  of 
the  secret.  The  Grand  Duke  and  Elizabeth  Woronzov 
took  commanding  positions  and  the  guests  made  obeisance 
to  her  as  they  entered,  just  as  if  she  were  the  reigning 
Empress.  They  stood  purposely  near  Count  Bestushev- 
Rjumin  that  he  might  be  forced  to  hear  and  see.  Eliza- 
beth Woronzov  was  eager  to  have  revenge  upon  this 
old  man  whom  she  hated  not  only  on  her  own  account, 
but  because  he  stood  in  the  way  of  her  uncle's  political 
advancement.  She  could  not  resist  the  pleasure  of  an 
irritating  remark  in  this  supposed  hour  of  her  triumph. 

"  How  handsome  these  Holstein  uniforms  are  to-night, 
Count  Bestushev-Rjumin !  Their  bright  colors  look  like 
a  flower  garden,  do  they  not?  " 

"Greatly!  Just  like  spring  flowers,  which,  unfor- 
tunately, wither  quickly." 

"  What  do  you  suppose  he  meant  by  that?  "  whispered 
a  Prussian  spy,  quick  to  take  alarm. 

253 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

"  Hush !  Keep  still !  "  whispered  back  his  comrade. 
"  Nothing  —  probably." 

"  Permit  me  to  congratulate  you  upon  your  appearance 
to-night,  Countess  Woronzov,"  flattered  Razumovsky, 
bowing  low.  "  You  are  lovely  enough  to  be  an  Em- 
press," continued  the  old  beau,  reckless  of  truth.  "  Is 
she  not,  Subanski  ?  " 

"  None  of  us  are  such  a  good  judge  of  Empresses  as 
you  are,  Razumovsky." 

The  Grand  Duke  attempted  an  air  of  dignity,  "  I 
consider  myself  to  be !  " 

"  I  congratulate  you,  Duke,  upon  your  taste !  "  re- 
torted the  witty  Pole,  bowing  low  with  mock  humility. 

"  But  where  is  the  Grand  Duchess?  " 

The  question  exploded  a  bomb  of  silence.  No  one 
dared  to  lift  an  eye  for  fear  it  might  betray  the  intelligence 
within.  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin  alone  surveyed  the 
scene  indifferently,  with  a  white  and  malevolent  face.  At 
length,  the  Grand  Duke  broke  the  silence  whose  weight 
he  could  not  bear.  But  his  voice  was  unsteady  and  they 
knew  his  words  were  false. 

"  The  Empress  summoned  her.  She  will  not  return 
to  the  ball." 

This  foolish  statement  betrayed  his  complicity  to  the 
opposing  party. 

"  And  my  sister,  the  Princess  Dashkov,  where  is  she?  " 
questioned  Elizabeth  Woronzov,  with  something  like 
terror  in  her  voice,  and  an  equal  lack  of  insight. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin,  seeing  an 
opportunity  to  vex  and  confuse  her.  "  Your  sister,  the 
Princess  Dashkov,  wore  a  black  domino  for  the  masking, 
did  she  not?" 

"Black  domino!"  Elizabeth  Woronzov  turned  pale 
and  tears  sprang  to  her  little  round  eyes. 

254 


CLOSE  OF  THE  NIGHT 

"  A  black  domino !  Did  you  hear  that,  your  Royal 
Highness?" 

Subanski,  who  enjoyed  the  discomfiture  of  other  people, 
caught  the  drift  of  the  conversation  and  helped  the  Chan- 
cellor. 

"  I  think  she  went  away  with  the  Grand  Duchess.  I 
remember  seeing  her.  They  entered  the  grand  march 
together  and  slipped  out  by  one  of  the  little  gilt  doors 
at  the  end  of  the  George  Salon." 

Elizabeth  Woronzov's  little  fat  face  looked  more  than 
frightened. 

"  Did  you  hear  that?  "  she  whispered  in  a  voice  that 
everyone  could  hear.  She  had  never  seen  any  point  in 
her  life. 

"Keep  still!  Keep  still,  can  you  not?"  admonished 
Countess  Bruce,  with  the  canny  Scotch  wit  which  she  had 
inherited  from  a  canny  Scotch  ancestor. 

"  See  my  handkerchief,  Elizabeth  Woronzov,"  chatted 
Razumovsky,  irrelevantly.  "  It  is  the  latest  thing  from 
Paris.  This  is  the  way  to  display  it,"  explained  the 
foolish  old  beau,  forgetting  his  years. 

Elizabeth  Woronzov  pulled  herself  together  and  tried 
to  forget  her  fear. 

"  And  my  shoes,  too,  Count  Alexis  Razumovsky!  "  re- 
plied Elizabeth  Woronzov,  taking  the  cue  and  making  a 
fresh  effort  to  conceal  her  emotion. 

"  The  very  latest  from  Paris !  Are  not  the  feathers 
beautiful?" 

"Beautiful!  Beautiful!  Are  they  not,  Gregory 
Orlov?  They  make  me  weep  for  joy.  That  is  the  way 
that  beauty  always  affects  me." 

"  And  mine,  too  1  See !  "  exclaimed  Countess  Bruce, 
thinking  the  subject  both  fortunate  and  safe. 

"What  do  you  think  of  them,   Chancellor?"  asked 

255 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

Elizabeth  Woronzov,  with  a  brave  effort  to  be  gay  and 
natural. 

"  Well,  well  —  they  do  become  you.  And  yet  I  have 
always  connected  feathers  with  a  certain  bird  which  I 
will  not  name." 

"The  insolence!" 

'  The  insolence !  "  chimed  the  fawning  spies,  trying  to 
pierce  with  angry  looks  that  mask  of  death,  that  had 
again  resumed  its  white  rigidity. 

''What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  demanded  the  Grand 
Duke,  remembering  his  newly  acquired  power,  and  that 
his  position  was  no  longer  secondary. 

"  I  thought,  your  Highness,  that  my  answer  was  clear. 
People  seldom  ask  for  a  second  one.  Do  you?  " 

"  I  will  teach  you  to  have  respect  for  my  opinion, 
Count  Bestushev  — " 

"Wait!  Wait!"  whispered  Elizabeth  Woronzov. 
"  In  a  few  hours  he  will  be  glad  enough  to  apologize  to 
you  —  and  to  me,  too,  for  that  matter." 

"Is  his  power  so  great?"  asked  a  startled  spy,  in  a 
low  voice,  to  his  neighbor.  "  Is  he  the  ruler  here?  " 

"  Did  you  ever !  "  exclaimed  the  cracked  and  senile 
treble  of  Razumovsky. 

"  Did  you  ever !  I  never  said  things  like  that,  even 
when  the  blessed  Empress  was  perfectly  well.  And  think 
what  a  position  I  held!  " 

"What  do  you  think  of  his  assurance?  What  can 
it  mean?  "  whispered  the  uneasy  Prussian  spy  again,  who 
felt  that  all  was  not  well.  "  Do  you  suppose  he  has 
tricked  me  at  the  last?  Do  you  suppose  he  could  be 
brave  and  insolent  like  this,  if  he  knew  the  end  would 
come  within  the  hour?  " 

They  glanced  timidly  sidewise  at  that  sphinxlike,  ter- 

256 


CLOSE  OF  THE  NIGHT 

rible  face  which  they  felt  would  determine  their  fate. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  read  upon  it.  The  Ghostly 
Chancellor  resembled  a  slender  statue  of  ivory  and  jet. 

Two  heralds  entered  with  gilt,  flower-wreathed  trum- 
pets. They  advanced  side  by  side  to  the  center  of  the 
George  Salon,  where  they  paused  and  lifted  their  trum- 
pets. 

"  Ladies  and  Gentlemen.  Members  of  the  court. 
The  tableaux!  The  tableaux!  The  Garden  will  now 
be  made  open  to  the  people." 

The  front  of  the  Garden  was  flung  back,  showing 
more  freely  now  the  streets  beyond,  and  the  breathless 
autumn  night  with  its  high,  pale,  scattered  stars,  and  the 
frosty  glitter  of  the  Milky  Way.  A  crowd  of  indis- 
tinguishable, dark,  moving  bodies  were  seen,,  with  now 
and  then  the  accented  whiteness  of  a  face  or  a  garment. 
As  far  as  the  eye  could  carry  there  swayed  a  black, 
murmuring  mass  of  humanity,  trying  to  push  forward 
eagerly  for  a  better  view  of  this  royal  revelry. 

The  movable  stage  was  brought  to  the  front  of  the 
George  Salon.  The  people  pressed  forward  to  catch 
glimpses  of  the  setting  and  the  gorgeous  costumes  of 
this  first  masked  ball  of  the  Russian  winter.  The  cur- 
tain went  up  on  the  tableau.  It  disclosed  the  Princess 
Dashkov  representing  Herodias.  She  held  out  toward 
the  people  a  silver  tray.  But  upon  this  tray  the  head 
was  missing. 

A  murmur  rippled  across  the  courtier  crowd.  The 
stupidest  among  them  felt  the  approaching  crisis.  The 
air  was  electric  with  suppressed  emotion.  Even  the  un- 
disciplined crowd  instinctively  turned  frightened  eyes  in 
search  of  that  well  known  figure  of  jet  and  ivory,  which 
they  felt  had  turned  loose  one  of  his  mysterious,  death 

257 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

dealing  plots,  which  no  one  was  skilful  enough  to  check. 
After  a  silence  which  was  louder  and  more  ominous  than 
sound,  they  shouted: 

"  A  head  she  wants.  She  wants  a  head.  Down  with 
the  royal  supporter  of  Prussia !  Down  with  him  I 
Down  with  him  1  " 

Terrified  silence  followed  this  first  explosion  of  senti- 
ment. Little  by  little,  into  the  minds  behind  all  the  eager, 
shining  eyes  there  had  filtered  the  comprehension  that  the 
Ghostly  Chancellor  was  telling  his  faithful  Russian  fol- 
lowers— telling  them  emphatically,  artistically — but  with- 
out incriminating  words,  that  the  Grand  Duke  must  die. 

Before  they  could  recover  the  power  of  speech,  his 
thin,  cruel,  old  voice  was  heard  saying  to  Subanski,  the 
Polish  Adonis,  "  You  were  right,  Subanski.  A  ball  and 
a  funeral  are  the  most  important  state  events  in  Russia. 
Especially,  if  the  funeral  happen  to  be  a  royal  one." 

"  The  second  tableau !  "  announced  the  sweet,  youth- 
ful voices  of  the  heralds  through  their  flower-wreathed 
trumpets.  Again,  the  curtain  went  up.  This  time  it 
disclosed  Catherine  Alexevna  representing  the  Slavic 
Venus,  who  was  likewise  goddess  of  the  avenging  light- 
ning. But  what  a  change  had  taken  place  in  her !  Her 
face  was  of  marble,  pallid  and  stern.  The  eyes  were 
not  the  beautiful  tender  eyes  of  a  woman  in  her  youth. 
They  were  hard,  bright  gems.  The  mouth  was  a  faint 
line  of  red.  The  body  had  lost  womanly  grace  and 
softness,  and  attained  the  rigidity  of  stone.  The  fea- 
tures were  thinner  and  more  sharply  lined.  The  re- 
semblance to  the  statuette  that  had  been  brought  back 
from  the  Pregel  was  startling  in  its  vividness.  It  was 
the  face  of  a  woman  whose  heart  some  destructive  thought 
had  killed.  It  was  the  face  of  cruelty ! 

Her  unbound  hair  fell  over  her  shoulders  in  rich  dis- 

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CLOSE  OF  THE  NIGHT 

order.  Upon  her  head,  rising  evenly  from  ear  to  ear  like 
a  half-moon,  was  a  blazing  disk  of  blue  gems  a  foot  in 
height.  Her  body  was  covered  smoothly  with  a  tight 
sheath  of  silver  upon  which  were  raised  figures  represent- 
ing animals  after  the  manner  of  old  Russian  embroidery. 
The  garment  left  the  shoulders  and  arms  uncovered,  and 
billowed  at  the  feet  into  a  piled  up  whiteness  that  re- 
sembled the  foam  of  the  sea.  In  one  hand,  upraised  in 
the  attitude  of  one  who  delivers  a  curse,  was  a  disk  of 
blazing  light. 

In  the  hush  that  followed  the  curtain's  going  up,  Count 
Bestushev-Rjumin  stepped  forward  and  announced: 

"  The  Slavic  Venus !  The  faithful  and  ancient  pro- 
tectress of  Russia !  " 

The  crowd  yelled  excitedly:  "  Russia  for  the  Rus- 
sians !  Long  live  the  Grand  Duchess !  " 

The  condition  of  the  Grand  Duke  was  truly  pitiful. 
Surprise  and  fear  overwhelmed  him  alternately.  As  his 
little  timid  eyes  glanced  toward  the  great,  black,  swaying 
mass  outside  for  a  possible  hope  of  escape,  he  saw  a 
bright,  falling  star  go  speeding  to  its  death  down  the 
northern  night.  He  knew  that  it  was  all  over  with  him. 
It  would  not  come  to-day  nor  to-morrow.  But  come  it 
would.  It  was  just  a  question  of  time.  And  he  knew 
that  he  would  not  have  either  the  energy  or  the  courage 
to  escape.  The  decree  had  gone  forth.  And  that 
bright  falling  star  made  him  feel  that  fate  had  signed  it 
across  the  night. 

In  his  pitiful,  little  heart  he  regretted  not  power,  or 
fame,  or  the  glittering  throne.  None  of  these!  They 
were  ages  away  from  him  now  that  the  end  had  come. 
Instead,  he  regretted  with  an  inexpressibly  childish  love, 
the  peaceful  mountain  farms  of  Sweden  and  the  little  wet 
valleys  that  were  green  as  an  emerald. 

259 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

The  frightened  spies  were  unable  to  guess  how  the 
tables  had  been  turned  upon  them.  They  escaped  among 
the  crowd  as  best  they  could,  knowing  that  to  be  found  in 
Petersburg  meant  death.  Some  of  them  succeeded  and 
hired  themselves  driven  speedily  to  where  a  black  ship 
still  waited  upon  the  tideless  Gulf.  With  the  same  mys- 
terious and  inexplainable  rapidity  the  bright  flower  garden 
of  Holstein  uniforms  faded  away.  Subanski,  who  en- 
joyed the  situation,  waved  his  elegant,  jewelled  hands 
triumphantly  and  called  with  boyish  glee, 

"  Down  with  the  enemies  of  Russia !  " 

The  crowd  took  up  the  call  and  varied  it  to  suit  them- 
selves. A  forest  of  black  arms  was  lifted  toward  the 
frosty  pallor  of  the  sky. 

"  Hail  to  the  Slavic  Venus !  Hail  to  the  restorer  of 
old  Russia !  Hail !  Hail !  " 

Count  Bestushev-Rjumin  signaled  to  Orlov.  Orlov  ad- 
vanced to  the  foot  of  the  stage  and  offered  his  hand  to 
the  Grand  Duchess.  Together  they  walked  into  the  Win- 
ter Garden,  while  the  members  of  the  court  and  the 
crowd  fell  upon  their  knees  in  attitudes  of  superstitious 
worship  and  adoration.  When  they  approached  the 
edge  of  the  Garden  the  crowd  shouted  excitedly:  "  Hail 
to  the  Slavic  Venus !  Hail  to  the  restorer  of  old  Russia. 
Hail!  Hail!" 

Here,  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin  met  them,  bowed  rever- 
ently, and  then  put  up  one  thin,  old,  trembling  hand  to 
command  silence. 

"  Gentlemen,  members  of  the  court,  and  men  of  Rus- 
sia, within  the  hour  I  send  command  to  our  conquering 
army  to  begin  the  siege  of  Berlin !  " 

"  Hurrah !     Hurrah !     Hurrah !  "  cried  the  crowd. 

"  Long  live  the  Slavic  Venus !  " 

260 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   LAST  DAYS  OF  AN   EMPEROR 

"  It  looks  like  the  resurrection,  doesn't  it?  "  laughed 
Peter  III,  genuinely  pleased.  "  Come  here,  Elizabeth 
Woronzov,  and  see !  "  he  called  gayly.  With  old  Mar- 
shal Miinnich,  who  had  just  returned  from  Siberia,  they 
were  standing  by  a  window  of  the  Diamond  Salon  in  the 
New  Palace. 

"  I  have  resurrected  the  exiled  dead  of  Siberia  —  and 
the  mines,  too  —  to  have  them  here  to  celebrate  to-day 

—  the  big  day  —  the  signing  of  peace  with  Prussia.     It 
is  a  shame  —  a  miserable  shame  —  the  way  the   Rus- 
sians plundered  and  destroyed  Berlin !     But  I'll  make  up 
for  it  —  the  best  I  can. 

"  Look  at  old  Biron  there !  —  the  Courlander !  He 
resembles  a  sick  dog,  doesn't  he?  Big  head  and  old  shak- 
ing feet?  He  has  been  in  Siberia  twenty  years.  And 
when  he  went  he  was  an  Emperor  —  or  just  the  same  as 
one.  A  change  —  that !  "  shaking  his  head  thoughtfully. 

"  And  there's  old  L'Estoque  —  that  old  French  devil 

—  the  physician  of  my  blessed  aunt,  Elizabeth  Petrovna. 
Look  at  him,   Elizabeth  Woronzov!     My  —  how  the 
torture  deformed  him!     He  can  hardly  walk!     Watch 
his  legs  twist  and  jerk!  "  he  exclaimed,  with  energy,  al- 
together absorbed  in  the   sight.     Elizabeth  Woronzov 
had  no  interest  in  the  scene  outside  the  window.     What 
did  anything  mattet  but  herself?     She  could  not  turn 

261 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

her  mind  from  her  increasing  honors,  her  ladies-in-wait- 
ing —  in  short,  her  future. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  they  look  like,  Miinnich !  "  con- 
tinued the  Emperor,  still  intent  upon  his  fancy  — "  these 
people  I've  brought  back.  They  look  like  the  wrecked 
fragments  of  some  earlier  polar  world.  I  like  to  look 
at  them.  But  no  one  else  ever  wants  to  do  anything  I 
want  to  do.  I've  a  fondness  for  graveyards  and  the 
dead."  He  paused,  turned  from  the  window,  and  began 
to  limp  about  the  room  in  his  peculiar  manner. 

He  was  intent  as  usual  upon  some  inner  thought. 

"  The  reason  I  like  the  dead,  Munnich,  is  because  I've 
lived  so  long  on  good  terms  with  them,"  he  went  on 
meditatively,  pulling  out  his  short,  white,  German  pipe 
and  lighting  it.  "  I've  got  accustomed  to  them.  When 
I  lived  in  Sweden,'Ame  day  one  of  the  courtiers  threw  a 
big,  red  apple  into  the  room  where  I  sat  with  my  tutor. 
It  rolled  to  my  feet.  I  bent  to  get  it  to  eat.  My  tutor 
got  ahead  of  me.  He  threw  it  to  my  dog  to  play  with. 
The  dog  stuck  his  teeth  into  it,  and  in  an  hour  he  died. 
I  have  always  thought  it  was  wise  for  me  to  keep  on 
good  terms  with  them  —  the  dead.  What  do  you 
think?" 

There  was  no  answer  to  this  strange  and  uncanny 
soliloquy.  It  was  not  within  the  present  range  of  Eliza- 
beth Woronzov's  thinking.  And  what  may  have  passed 
through  old  Marshal  Miinnich's  mind  he  deemed  best 
not  to  express.  The  Emperor  went  back  to  the  window. 

"  There's  that  old  bear,  Lomonossov,  and  his  satellites, 
Von-Visin  and  Dershawin, —  and  the  young  lieutenant  of 
the  Ismailov  Guards,  Novikov.  My,  how  they  hate  this 
celebration  in  honor  of  Prussia  !  He !  he !  he !  How 
they  hate  it.  He  !  he  !  he  !  But  they  have  got  to  pretend 
they  like  it.  I'll  bet  when  I  came  to  the  throne  they  tore 

262 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  AN  EMPEROR 

up    patriotic   poems    in    honor   of   plundering    Berlin." 

"  I  think,  your  Majesty,"  ventured  old  Marshal  Miin- 
nich,  "  that  this  celebration  in  honor  of  Prussia  was  not 
wise.  It  displeases  the  army.  It  displeases  the  people. 
You  know  how  the  cost  of  living  has  increased.  The 
poor  are  starving." 

"  Who  is  Emperor,  if  I  am  not?  " 

"  I  know  —  your  Majesty.  It  is  only  six  months  since 
that  Christmas  day  Elizabeth  Petrovna  died.  You  are 
still  young  to  the  throne.  It  is  wisest  to  conciliate  the 
people  first  and  win  their  good  will.  Make  yourself  pop- 
ular, instead  of  going  against  them  like  this.  Do  not 
oppose  their  will.  You  always  lose  by  doing  it.  I  was 
one  of  the  councillors  of  your  grandfather.  I  am  de- 
voted to  the  Romanoffs.  You  know  from  me  you  hear 
only  that  which  is  for  your  good;  so --you  can  bear  with 
me  because  I  am  an  old  man." 

"  That's  what  I  brought  you  back  for,  Miinnich.  In 
my  heart  I  know  you  are  the  only  one  in  the  lot  I  can 
trust,"  he  explained,  impulsively,  giving  words  to  one  of 
those  shrewd  apercus  that  from  time  to  time  brightened 
his  folly. 

"  I,  for  my  part,  do  not  see  what  difference  anybody's 
opinion  makes,"  declared  Elizabeth  Woronzov,  with  her 
usual  hauteur.  She  had  grown  noticeably  stout  and  some- 
what coarse.  On  her  short  unlovely  body  shone  the 
gems  of  that  imperial  beauty,  Elizabeth  Petrovna. 

Peter  III  had  changed  physically,  too,  since  the  de- 
mise of  the  Empress.  Six  months  of  unrestrained  dis- 
sipation had  made  fearful  inroads  upon  his  frail  body. 
He  was  hollow  cheeked.  His  skin  looked  gray  and 
shriveled.  He  had  aged  as  if  by  magic.  More  than 
ever  he  had  the  appearance  of  a  dressed  up  ghost.  To- 
day he  was  wearing  a  heavily  braided  uniform  of  blue, 

263 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

tight  breeches  of  white  leather,  and  long,  shining  black 
boots.  Around  his  neck  hung  the  decoration  of  the  Black 
Eagle,  recently  bestowed  by  the  Prussian  king.  His 
small,  thin,  fragile  hands  were  all  but  hidden  beneath 
gems.  The  manner  of  this  bizarre  combination  of  mad- 
man, dreamer,  artist,  and  penetrator  of  hidden  thoughts, 
who  sat  upon  a  throne,  had  likewise  changed.  As  a  child 
he  had  been  sick,  and  abused.  As  a  man  he  had  been 
dwarfed  by  restraint  and  depraved  by  evil  companions. 
Now,  as  autocrat  of  the  Russians,  he  saw  a  world  bow- 
ing at  his  feet.  The  change  was  too  great.  Few  could 
withstand  it. 

We  can  scarcely  conceive  to-day  of  the  grandiose  self- 
glorification  of  the  Czars  in  that  city,  hastily  improvised 
for  their  European  debut,  young  in  the  world,  and  so 
far  removed  from  the  cities  of  cultivated  Europe  that 
recognized  standards  were  unfelt  and  disregarded.  The 
age,  the  conditions,  conspired  to  magnify  them,  until  they 
looked  like  figures  on  lonely  hill  tops  seen  through  fog. 
And  the  great,  untamed  spaces  of  their  scarcely  mapped 
Muscovy,  made  eye  and  mind  dizzy  and  incompetent  to 
judge,  swayed  always  by  the  vertigo  of  distance. 

"  I'll  make  the  world  take  notice  of  me !  I'll  make  the 
world  open  it  eyes !  "  his  sharp,  nasal  voice  was  heard 
saying,  while  he  hopped  about  nervously  in  his  peculiar 
birdlike  manner. 

Outside  the  window  the  streets  were  crowded  with 
people  who  were  celebrating,  by  his  order,  the  three  days' 
holiday  beginning  June  the  ninth. 

"  But  first  I'm  going  to  enjoy  myself  for  a  month ! 
I've  worked  hard  lately.  I'm  tired.  I'm  going  to  throw 
off  care  and  be  happy.  Haven't  I  the  same  right  to  rest 
as  other  people,  I'd  like  to  know?  I  want  to  finish,  for 
one  thing,  the  second  volume  of  Sterne's  Tristram  Shandy. 

264 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  AN  EMPEROR 

My  new  violin  is  coming  from  Italy  —  and  some  music 
with  it.  I  want  to  enjoy  them.  They  may  be  here  to- 
day." 

"  Your  Majesty,"  began  Marshal  Mimnich,  "  take  my 
advice  and  arrange  time  for  enjoyment  later.  The  thing 
for  your  Majesty  to  do  is  to  go  to  Moscow  and  be 
crowned.  That  assures  your  throne  —  with  the  people. 
Nothing  is  safe  until  then." 

"  Do  you  suppose,  Miinnich,  that  I'm  going  to  have 
that  wife  of  mine,  Madame  La  Ressource,  crowned?  " 
he  questioned  in  a  voice  of  anger.  "  Well,  I  guess  not. 
It's  the  last  thing  in  the  world  I'd  think  of  doing." 

Elizabeth  Woronzov  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled. 

u  Make  your  throne  secure,"   advised  the   old  man. 
*  Then  you  can  do  as  you  like.     Everything  will  come,  if 
you  see  to  that." 

"  No  —  I've  got  a  lot  of  other  things  to  do  first," 
stubbornly  insisted  Peter  III,  upon  whom  reason  and 
argument  made  no  impression.  "  I'll  make  Russia  look 
up !  You  watch  me.  Here's  what  I've  given  orders  for 
already  —  this  week.  I'm  going  to  confiscate  the  lands 
of  the  Greek  church.  I'll  show  the  priests  they  are  not 
such  a  power !  "  He  chuckled  in  pleased  anticipation. 

"  Then  I'll  take  the  pictures  out  of  the  cathedrals  and 
put  up  good-looking  German  pictures,  which  I  will  select 
myself.  I  am  going  to  erect  a  Lutheran  church  in  Peters- 
burg, and  a  Lutheran  chapel  in  Oranienbaum.  The 
Greek  chapel  there  I'll  tear  down.  You  ought  to  see 
the  letters  of  protest  I  received.  One  from  the  Metro- 
politan of  Moscow.  I'll  teach  him  to  protest  to  me !  " 

'  That  is  not  wise,  your  Majesty.  Let  the  faith  of 
your  people  alone.  That  is  something  no  monarch  can 
change.  There  are  other  things  more  important,  your 
Majesty,"  he  added  significantly. 

265 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

'  What's  more  important  than  religion,  I'd  like  to 
know?"  he  retorted,  ready  for  an  unpleasant  argument. 

Elizabeth  Woronzov  looked  pleased  at  what  she  con- 
sidered the  imperial  will. 

"  Besides,  Miinnich,  I'm  going  to  issue  an  ukase  doing 
away  with  church  of  state.  In  my  land  religion  shall 
be  free." 

He  paused  by  one  of  the  windows  to  smell  pleasurably 
the  sweet  air  of  spring.  Fragrant  birch  tree  leaves  shook 
outside  in  the  light.  Blue  mist  hung  over  the  distant 
water. 

The  joy  at  recall  from  exile  was  changing  to  sadness  in 
the  mind  of  the  old  Marshal  at  this  interview  with  the 
new  Emperor.  He  realized  the  unbridgeable  chasm  that 
lay  between  the  mind  of  this  irresponsible  man  and  the 
glorious  destiny  to  which  he  was  born. 

Involuntarily  his  eyes  swept  the  gorgeous  walls  of  the 
Diamond  Salon  where  they  were  sitting,  glittering  walls, 
which  framed  incongruously  this  ungainly  phantom  who 
was  ruler. 

"  These  Russian  soldiers  who  put  on  airs,  I'm  teaching 
to  mend  their  manners,"  he  went  on  to  explain  to  the  re- 
cently returned  Miinnich.  "  I'm  going  to  dress  the 
Preobrashensky  Regiment  and  the  Ismailov  Guard  in 
German  uniforms  and  send  them  into  the  interior  —  to 
stay.  My!  —  how  they  will  hate  to  leave  Petersburg! 
In  their  place  I  will  put  my  Holstein  Guard.  My  cousin, 
Prince  George,  who  has  just  arrived,  I  have  made  com- 
mander-in-chief  of  the  army." 

"  Oh  —  your  Majesty  —  don't  do  a  thing  like  that !  " 
begged  the  old  man,  his  voice  trembling.  "  The  army 
is  already  angry  over  war  with  Denmark.  They  say 
it  is  no  war  of  theirs.  The  Russian  army  —  you  must 
remember  —  has  never  been  the  servile  mass  other  armies 

266 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  AN  EMPEROR 

have  been.  They  have  exerted  a  mind  and  will  of  their 
own.  They  have  had  independent  influence  upon  the  des- 
tiny of  the  nation.  They  will  mutiny  1  " 

"  The  order  has  gone,  Miinnich.  They  know  it  now. 
You  will  see  how  they  bow  their  heads.  I'll  make  them 
suffer  for  the  way  they  treated  me  —  and  their  airs!  " 

"  Your  Majesty,  there  is  not  any  place  in  life  for 
revenge.  Believe  me !  I  learned  this  in  a  quarter  of  a 
century  of  exile.  And,  especially,  your  Majesty,  there 
is  no  place  for  revenge  for  you  —  of  all  men.  Conciliate 
is  what  you  must  do.  Conciliate  everyone  —  everyone. 
Times  are  bad  now.  Your  people  are  maddened  by 
scarcity  of  money  and  food.  They  are  murmuring  every 
day  against  the  extravagance  of  the  court.  In  the  article 
in  the  last  Petersburg  Gazette  which  described  the  food 
situation,  the  high  price,  the  suffering  of  the  people,  there 
was  another  article  followed  it  —  placed  by  the  side  of 
it  for  the  sake  of  effectiveness.  It  said  the  blessed  Em- 
press—  your  aunt  —  left  sixteen  hundred  royal  robes, 
and  hundreds  of  pairs  of  boots  and  shoes.  It  said  the 
vegetables  for  her  table  cost  fifty-six  thousand  rubles 
yearly,  and  the  fowls  fifty  thousand  rubles.  That  was 
printed  to  make  trouble,  your  Majesty!  Believe  me,  the 
army  will  mutiny  before  it  will  go  to  Denmark  and  there 
fight  under  the  Prussian  King,  who  is  hated  by  your  en- 
tire country." 

Peter  III,  as  was  his  habit,  paid  no  heed  to  the  wise 
words  of  the  old  man.  As  usual,  he  progressed  wildly 
with  his  fixed  idea. 

"  And  I  am  going  to  throw  Russian  books  out  of  the 
library.  I'll  show  these  Russians  who  made  so  much  fun 
of  me  what  I'll  do!  That  old  fool  Lomonosov  I  just 
saw  go  by  the  window  here  thinks  I  will  give  money  for 
his  mosaic  glass  factory.  He'll  see !  I'll  have  the  thing 

267 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

burned.  He !  he !  he !  "  His  foolish  laughter  glittered 
sharply  across  the  splendid  room,  as  a  fresh  thought  of 
revenge  touched  his  brain. 

"  I've  decreed  that  Russian  priests  take  off  robes  and 
wear  short  black  coats  —  and  top  hats  — .  How  they 
will  look!  O  my!  O  my!  "  bending  double  with  laugh- 
ter. "  And  I'm  going  to  change  the  name  of  every  regi- 
ment. I'm  going  to  give  them  German  names.  How 
that  will  hurt  them !  He !  he !  he ! 

"  You  know  how  I  used  to  dress  my  lead  dolls,  Miin- 
nich?  No,  you  do  not!  You  were  not  here.  Well, 
that's  the  way  I  am  going  to  dress  and  undress  the  Rus- 
sian people  for  my  amusement.  I'll  be  Emperor  with 
a  will!" 

"Your  Majesty  —  your  Majesty — "  replied  Marshal 
Miinnich,  rising  to  his  feet  and  trembling  with  complex 
emotions.  "  I  beg  your  Majesty  to  be  guided  by  me. 
You  are  new  to  the  throne.  You  are  inexperienced  in 
ruling.  I  was  one  of  the  valued  friends  of  your  grand- 
father. Listen  to  me !  " 

There  was  a  note  in  the  old  man's  voice  that  touched 
Elizabeth  Woronzov,  dull  as  she  was,  and  made  her  for 
a  moment  fear  there  was  danger  ahead.  Could  it  be 
that  that,  which  seemed  so  near  it  was  practically  within 
reach,  might  elude  her? 

"  Your  Majesty  —  there  is  without  doubt  a  plot  on 
foot  to  dethrone  you.  You  have  deliberately  angered 
the  army,  the  church  —  two  powerful  political  bodies." 

"  What  difference  does  anybody  make?  Am  I  not  Em- 
peror? " 

"  But  Emperors  have  been  dethroned."  In  the  grav- 
ity of  the  danger  that  threatened,  the  old  man  was  for- 
getting the  servility  due  his  august  listener. 

'  Your  Majesty,  only  yesterday  the  French  ambassa- 

268 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  AN  EMPEROR 

dor,  M.  de  Breteuil,  received  a  personal  letter  from  his 
sovereign  —  from  the  King  of  France  himself.  I  paid  to 
find  out  what  was  in  that  letter!  Listen,  your  Majesty, 
and  hear  1  This  is  what  he  wrote,  Louis  XV,  '  The 
silence  of  the  Empress,  and  the  power  that  is  known  to 
be  in  her,  give  us  reason  to  believe  that  Peter  III  will  not 
stay  long  upon  the  throne.' ' 

The  old  man  repeated  the  last  words  in  a  voice  that 
shook,  while  his  face  was  white  as  chalk,  because  of  the 
temerity  with  which  he  had  addressed  his  sovereign. 

Elizabeth  Woronzov  comprehended.  But  Peter  III 
did  not. 

"  Breteuil  is  a  fool !  Don't  you  worry,  Munnich, 
my  friend !  I'm  cleverer  than  all  of  them.  I've  got  the 
head  that  can  outwit  them.  Why,  I  keep  them  so  busy  in 
my  peculiar  way  —  and  have  such  an  eye  upon  them  — 
they  don't  have  time  to  plot.  Don't  you  worry,  Mun- 
nich I  "  He  hopped  about  merrily,  bragging  and  bluster- 
ing. 

"  But,  your  Majesty,  this  proves  that  word  of  a  plot 
must  have  been  sent  by  Breteuil,  to  Louis  XV.  Do  you 
not  see  it  proves  it?  Do  you  not  see  your  danger?  You 
must  give  up  everything  for  the  present  and  hasten  to 
Moscow  to  be  crowned." 

The  magic  word  crowned  made  Elizabeth  Woronzov 
forget  again  the  danger  that  impended.  She  wished  to 
put  off  that  crowning  until  she  herself  would  be  the  woman 
to  be  crowned. 

"  You  are  not  the  first,  Munnich,  to  warn  me.  Just 
yesterday  I  received  a  letter  from  my  faithful  friend, 
Frederick  of  Prussia.  He  warned  me,  too.  He  told 
me  to  have  the  Orlovs  —  and  others  he  named  — 
watched.  He  told  me  to  keep  an  eye  upon  them  day  and 
night.  I  sent  him  a  letter  to-day.  I  told  him  he  need 

269 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

not  worry,  because  I  was  too  shrewd  for  the  Orlovs, 
Madame  La  Ressource,  and  Panin,  put  together.  Why, 
Miinnich,  he  has  warned  me  every  week  since  her  Majesty 
died.  So  don't  worry,  good  old  Miinnich !  "  patting  him 
affectionately  on  the  back,  drawing  a  chair  beside  him 
and  seating  himself.  Elizabeth  Woronzov  reluctantly 
left  her  position  by  the  window  where  she  was  showing 
herself  to  the  crowd  outside,  and  joined  them. 

"  The  plan  is  made,  Miinnich.  This  is  my  opportunity 
to  unfold  it.  I'm  going  to  begin  war  with  Denmark 
on  account  of  my  Holstein  Duchy.  Frederick  of  Prussia 
will  help  me  —  join  me.  I  command  the  army  myself. 
I  intended  to  start  for  Denmark  the  last  of  the  second 
week  in  June.  To-day  is  the  eleventh,  the  last  day  of  the 
celebration.  But  now,  I've  changed  my  mind.  I'm  not 
going  to  start  until  the  day  after  my  birthday,  which  is 
June  twenty-ninth,  Peter  and  Paul's  day. 

"  I'm  going  to  Oranienbaum  to-morrow  —  and  you, 
too,  dear  Miinnich,  to  enjoy  myself,  without  a  care.  For 
a  long  time  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  what  to  do  with 
Elizabeth  Romanovna  here.  First  I  thought  I'd  take 
her  with  me  —  You  see  I  didn't  want  to  be  separated 
from  her.  I'm  lonesome  and  unhappy  without  her.  And 
then  I  thought  it  would  be  too  hard  for  her  —  to  go  — 
so  far.  This  is  what  I  plan  to  do.  On  the  noon  of  my 
birthday,  we  are  to  drive  from  Oranienbaum  to  Peterhof 

—  where  I  am  sending  Madame  La  Ressource  —  and 
where  she  gives  a  midday  dinner  in  my  honor.     While 
we  are  dining,  and  she  doesn't  know  a  thing  about  it,  my 
German  guards  will  surround  Peterhof.     When  she  arises 
from  the  table,  after  drinking  my  health,  they  will  arrest 
her.     They  will  take  her  —  and  that  son  of  hers  —  who 
is  no  son  of  mine  —  to  Schliisselberg  and  imprison  them 

—  for  life  —  in  the  prison  where  Ivan  Antonovicz,  the 

270 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  AN  EMPEROR 

Romanoff  prince,  is  imprisoned.  Ivan  Antonovicz  they 
will  bring  to  Petersburg.  I  will  declare  him  my  heir. 
I  shall  never  have  any  children  of  my  own.  He  is  only 
twenty-three  now  and  of  the  blood  of  the  Romanoffs,  like 
myself.  I  will  marry  him  to  my  German  niece.  I  had 
her  come  with  Prince  George  for  that  purpose.  Then  I 
will  have  Elizabeth  Woronzov  appointed  regent,  while  I 
am  at  war  in  Denmark.  Thus,  you  see,  the  present  and 
the  future  will  be  assured.  When  I  come  back,  I  will 
have  my  divorce  from  Madame  La  Ressource  proclaimed 
and  I  will  marry  Elizabeth  Woronzov.  Then,  we  two 
will  go  to  Moscow  together  to  be  crowned.  I  will  exile 
— imprison  —  all  the  Orlovs,  and  that  fop,  Subanski,  or 
else  I'll  put  them  to  hard  labor  in  the  mines.  Count 
Bestushev,  whom  my  blessed  aunt,  Elizabeth  Petrovna, 
sent  to  Siberia  just  before  she  died,  I  will  behead.  What 
do  you  think  of  that  for  a  plan,  hey —  Miinnich?  Now 
do  you  think  I  haven't  a  head  on  my  shoulders?  Do 
you  think  I  need  any  one's  advice?" 

'  The  plan  is  good,  your  Majesty.  But  put  it  into 
execution  to-morrow.  Do  not  wait.  Do  not  wait  a 
single  day." 

"  Take  the  advice  of  Marshal  Miinnich,  your  Maj- 
esty! He  is  devoted  to  you.  He  is  old  and  wise.  He, 
perhaps,  knows  something  we  do  not.  Take  his  advice, 
your  Majesty,"  begged  Elizabeth  Woronzov,  nervously. 

'  That  is  just  where  I  am  going  to  prove  I  am  cleverer 
and  braver  than  all  of  you.  I  am  going  to  show  you 
I  can  defy  danger  and  win.  I'm  going  to  snap  my 
fingers  in  the  face  of  them  —  and  their  plots. 

"  From  now  until  my  birthday  I  am  going  to  rest  and 
amuse  myself.  I  am  going  to  be  free  —  happy.  I  am 
not  going  to  think  of  affairs.  To-morrow  I  and  the 
courtiers  —  whom  I  care  to  invite  —  go  to  Oranienbaum 

271 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

for  a  good  time.  I  have  commanded  that  Panin  and  the 
Grand  Duke  Paul  remain  in  Petersburg,  in  the  Summer 
Palace.  The  Empress  —  Madame  La  Ressource  —  is 
not  going  to  be  of  the  party.  She  is  to  go  to  Peterhof 
any  time  she  wishes.  I  do  not  care  when.  But  she  will 
understand  she  must  be  in  Peterhof  for  my  birthday  din- 
ner. The  foreign  ambassadors,  the  prime  minister,  and 
the  head  of  the  army  are  to  accompany  me  —  and  my  new 
Holstein  Guard  —  but  not  a  single  Russian  soldier  or 
officer.  I  have  selected  the  seventeen  prettiest  women  in 
Russia  to  go  as  ladies-in-waiting  to  Elizabeth  Woronzov. 
I  tell  you,  Miinnich,  it  will  be  a  sight  when  we  set  out  to- 
morrow !  I  hope  the  sun  will  shine !  Everyone  will  put 
on  court  attire.  We  ride  in  open  carriages,  with  liveried 
outriders.  Narcissus,  my  fool,  and  Mopsinka,  my  dog, 
have  a  carriage  to  themselves.  You'll  see  how  they  will 
be  decorated !  Narcissus  will  shine  like  a  sun." 

"  That  is  the  most  dangerous  thing  your  Majesty  could 
do.  You  will  leave  her  Majesty,  Catherine  Alexevna,  in 
Petersburg  with  her  friends,  with  the  Russian  army,  the 
officers,  the  men  of  the  navy  —  and  Panin  —  who  are 
unfriendly  to  you.  You  give  them  a  free  hand  to  perfect 
their  plans.  I  beg  your  Majesty  to  give  it  up.  You 
could  not  do  a  more  unwise  thing!  " 

"What  can  they  do  to  me?  I  have  my  Holstein 
Guard !  " 

"  What,  your  Majesty,  are  three  hundred  Holsteiners 
in  comparison  with  the  Russian  army?  Do  not  go  — 
I  beg  you !  If  you  wish  to  set  out  to-morrow,  let  it  be  to 
Moscow  to  be  crowned." 

At  this  suggestion  Elizabeth  Woronzov  shook  her  head 
at  him. 


272 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  AN  EMPEROR 

"  Don't  oppose  me  any  more,  good  Miinnich !  It  will 
not  do  any  good.  I've  set  my  heart  upon  it,  I  tell  you. 
This  procession  of  the  court  to-morrow  to  Oranienbaum 
—  in  this  fine  spring  weather  —  will  be  as  famous  in  his- 
tory as  the  triumph  of  a  Caesar.  It  will  be  just  as  gor- 
geous. You  be  ready  for  the  carriage.  It  will  call  for  you. 
At  Oranienbaum  we  will  revel  as  the  Caesars  reveled. 
Am  I  not  the  Russian  Caesar?  Nero  played  and  im- 
provised beside  the  sea  of  Greece;  I  will  play  beside  the 
Finnish  sea.  There  will  be  parades  of  Prussian  soldiers. 
There  will  be  pantomimes.  There  will  be  uproarious 
banquets,  genuine  bacchanalian  revels,  when  my  seventeen 
beauties  and  Elizabeth  Woronzov  will  plunge  their  arms 
into  baskets  of  red  Russian  gold  and  fling  handfuls  to 
the  crowd,  to  the  servants,  to  the  guard  in  the  grounds. 
There  will  be  dinners  prolonged  until  day.  We  will 
drink  to  the  midnight  sun  as  it  circles  round  the  pole  and 
does  not  set.  Under  the  inspiration  of  pleasure  and  hap- 
piness I  will  perfect  my  plan  for  Russia  to  lead  the  na- 
tions of  the  earth  in  music.  I  will  invite  composers  here. 
They  will  discover  new  harmonies.  They  will  write 
noble  compositions.  I  will  civilize  and  enlighten  Russia 
through  music." 

Marshal  Miinnich,  with  a  white  and  worried  face, 
bowed  sadly  and  left.  Elizabeth  Woronzov  looked  at 
the  old  man  with  a  combination  of  triumph  and  scorn  upon 
her  round,  fat  face,  as  he  went  through  the  door  bow- 
ing reverently.  She  was  thinking  of  the  costly  gown 
she  would  wear  on  the  morrow,  of  the  sensation  she 
would  create,  when  she  headed  the  procession  of  car- 
riages with  the  Emperor  by  her  side. 

The  next  day,  as  soon  as  this  procession  started  for 

273 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

Oranienbaum,  Catherine  Alexevna,  dressed  from  head 
to  foot  in  mourning,  without  a  jewel  or  sign  of  rank, 
holding  by  the  hand  her  small  son,  the  Grand  Duke  Paul, 
walked  through  the  streets  of  Petersburg,  unattended,  to 
the  Cathedral  of  Kasan,  where  for  an  hour,  she  knelt  in 
prayer. 


274 


CHAPTER  XIII 

"  J  THE    UNDERTAKING   OF    MONSIEUR   ORLOV  " 

On  the  night  of  the  twenty-seventh,  it  occurred  to 
Peter  III  to  drive  to  Peterhof  to  pay  a  friendly  call  upon 
the  Empress  and  to  make  sure  that  preparations  were  go- 
ing forward  properly  for  the  dinner  which  she  was  to 
give  to  himself  and  the  court  on  the  anniversary  of  his 
birth,  and  to  find  out  just  how  badly  she  felt  because 
she  had  not  been  invited  to  his  fete.  He  found  Catherine 
Alexevna  no  more  silent  than  usual  and  apparently  sub- 
missive. Everything  seemed  to  be  as  he  wished.  The 
Grand  Duke  Paul  had  been  left  behind.  The  Empress 
was  without  guests.  She  was  dressed  in  mourning  for 
Elizabeth  Petrovna.  The  general  appearance  satisfied 
him  and  put  whatever  suspicions  he  may  have  had  to  rest. 
When  he  was  taking  leave,  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  con- 
descending hauteur:  "  After  my  birthday  dinner  I  shall 
stay  a  while  after  the  guests  are  gone  to  talk  over  some 
questions  of  importance,  before  I  leave  for  the  war.  It 
will  be  necessary  to  get  rid  of  illusions.  We  have  had 
too  many  —  you  and  I.  We  must  begin  to  look  at  things 
sensibly." 

She  made  no  reply.  She  did  not  wish  to  open  an  un- 
welcome discussion.  As  he  entered  his  carriage  to  re- 
turn, Catherine  Alexevna  saw  Narcissus  on  the  back 
seat  awaiting  him.  He  was  dressed  in  cloth  of  gold  and 

1  The  title  "  The  Undertaking  of  Monsieur  Orlov "  is  the  name  given 
to  this  night's  happenings  by  an  old  chronicler  of  Moscow.     E.  W.  U. 

275 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

grinning  like  a  Chinese  idol.  She  understood  that  this 
vas  the  first  announcement  of  the  coming  divorce. 

While  Peter  III  was  talking  with  the  Empress  in 
Peterhof,  there  was  multiform  activity  in  Petersburg. 
An  empire  was  being  born  which  was  to  influence  might- 
ily a  new  modern  world  which  was  just  at  hand.  A  young 
soldier  of  the  Ismailov  Guard  whispered  to  another 
soldier  in  the  silence  of  night, 

"  Do  you  suppose  it  is  true?  " 

"What?"  questioned  the  other. 

"  That  after  the  dinner  to  his  Majesty,  the  Empress 
and  her  son  are  to  be  arrested  by  the  German  Guard 
—  and  murdered?" 

The  second  soldier  was  a  hanger  on  of  the  increasingly 
powerful  Orlovs.  The  news  was  of  moment  to  him. 
He  was  staking  his  future  upon  their  favor.  He  left 
his  talkative  companion,  as  soon  as  he  could  without 
arousing  suspicion,  and  carried  the  word  to  one  of  the 
Orlovs.  The  Orlov  in  question  communicated  it  to  his 
brothers,  who  saw  to  it  that  the  information  reached  every 
one  taking  sides  with  Catherine  Alexevna.  Word  was 
sent  to  Princess  Dashkov.  She  borrowed  a  soldier's 
suit  from  boyish  Lieutenant  Pushkin  of  the  Preobrashen- 
sky  Regiment  and  drove  to  the  house  of  the  Orlovs  on 
the  corner  of  the  Great  Morskoi.  She  found  the  two 
blond  giants,  Gregory  and  Alexis,  alone.  On  the  way 
her  woman's  wit  had  been  busy. 

"  Take  a  carriage,  Alexis  Orlov  —  quickly  as  you  can ! 
Drive  to  Peterhof.  Bring  Catherine  Alexevna  here." 

"  Right,  Princess,"  agreed  Gregory  Orlov.  "  They 
are  forcing  our  hand.  There  is  nothing  else  to  do.  We 
must  get  ahead  of  the  plot  and  ruin  them,  or  they  will 
ruin  us." 

Alexis  Orlov's  deep  bass  thundered  across  the  room, 

276 


"  If  Peter  III  comes  back  to  Petersburg,  we  shall  be 
imprisoned  —  or  beheaded." 

"  The  list  is  made  out,  I've  heard,"  added  Gregory. 
"  We've  got  to  get  ahead  of  him  to  save  our  necks." 

"  Bring  Catherine  Alexevna  here.  Have  her  conse- 
crated to-morrow  morning.  That  will  settle  things. 
That  will  save  our  heads." 

"  It  is  the  only  hope  for  us  now  —  and  her,  too,"  de- 
clared Princess  Dashkov  with  emphasis. 

"  She's  right,  Alexis  I  You  go  after  her.  Order  a 
carriage  with  fast  horses.  Take  off  your  officer's  coat 
and  hat  so  no  one  will  recognize  you.  Start  at  once." 

"  Go,  go,  Gregory,"  urged  Princess  Dashkov.  "  I 
will  go  to  Catherine  Alexevna's  apartments  in  the  Winter 
Palace  and  await  her  coming.  In  the  meantime,  I  will 
see  Panin,  and  have  him  and  the  Grand  Duke  Paul  pre- 
pare for  the  consecration  in  the  morning.  Panin  already 
has  written  a  proclamation.  You,  Gregory  Orlov,  make 
the  round  of  the  barracks  to-night.  Tell  Subanski  to 
arouse  the  Hussars.  Tell  Count  Alexis  Razumovsky  to 
inform  his  brother,  the  hetman.  Warn  the  Archbishop 
of  Novgorod  to  be  prepared  to  administer  the  oath  of 
office.  Another  thing,  Gregory,"  laughed  Princess  Dash- 
kov, who  was  beginning  to  enjoy  the  dramatic  situation. 
"  Whisper  to  the  army  men  to  have  their  old  green  uni- 
forms, the  kind  they  wore  under  Elizabeth  Petrovna, 
where  they  can  get  them.  To-morrow  we'll  Russianize 
Petersburg  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  —  and  banish  the 
influence  of  Germany  just  as  speedily." 

Alexis  Orlov  was  not  the  only  one  who  set  out  with 
speed  on  the  road  toward  the  gulf  on  this  momentous 
night.  A  young  soldier  heard  of  the  conspiracy  and 
started  alone  to  warn  Peter  III. 

Alexis  Orlov,  telling  the  driver  not  to  spare  the  horses, 

277 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

left  Petersburg,  rattled  over  the  long  bridge,  out  across 
a  space  of  level  garden  land,  on  through  the  little  villages 
Rothkabatschki  and  Goreli;  then  on  through  more  level 
garden  land.  They  were  asleep  in  the  village  of  Ligov. 
No  curious  heads  looked  through  the  windows  although 
the  Arctic  summer  night  was  light.  After  he  left  Ligov, 
the  fields  broadened.  They  began  to  be  interspersed  with 
forests  of  pine  and  birch.  He  was  just  on  the  point  of 
descending  the  little  hill  at  the  foot  of  which,  a  short 
stretch  of  road  ahead,  he  could  see  the  red  roofs  of 
Peterhof  and  the  summer  pavilion,  Mon  Plaisir,  that  ad- 
joined it,  when  a  horseman  clattered  past  riding  madly. 
It  was  a  soldier.  He  recognized  the  uniform.  But  the 
rider  he  did  not  know.  He  was  a  soldier  in  the  ranks. 
But  he  did  know  that  there  could  be  only  one  reason  why 
a  soldier  was  riding  at  such  speed  in  this  direction  to- 
night. The  soldier  recognized  the  huge  Orlov.  He  saw 
the  deep  saber  wound  across  his  face.  He,  too,  knew 
what  must  be  Orlov1  s  mission.  He  knew  that  he  must 
not  fail.  He  knew  that  others  beside  him  were  on  the 
alert.  But  Orlov  had  the  best  of  it.  Peterhof,  where 
Catherine  Alexevna  was  staying,  was  a  few  hundred  yards 
away.  It  was  within  sight.  But  Oranienbaum,  where 
Peter  III  was  staying,  was  a  distance  beyond,  by  the  shore 
of  the  Finnish  Gulf.  Orlov  would  reach  his  destination 
first. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  the  lonely  rider,  with  no  one  to 
help  or  recommend  him,  succeeded  in  forcing  his  way 
past  the  Holstein  Guards  and  into  a  palace  waiting  room. 
He  begged  to  be  taken  to  the  Emperor.  He  said  he  had 
something  of  such  vital  importance  to  tell  that  it  could 
not  wait.  He  was  informed  that  the  emperor  was  asleep. 
The  night  before  he  had  given  a  fete  upon  the  royal 
yacht.  It  had  lasted  until  morning.  Now  the  Emperor 

278 


UNDERTAKING  OF  MONSIEUR  ORLOV 

was  weary.  He  could  not  be  disturbed.  The  soldier 
went  out  into  the  garden.  He  tried  to  explain  to  the 
Holstein  Guards  the  nature  of  his  errand.  They  laughed 
at  him.  They  swaggered  and  swore  in  German.  They 
mimicked  him.  "  How  could  anything  of  importance 
happen  in  Petersburg,"  they  retorted,  "  when  his  Majesty, 
the  prime  minister,  Woronzov,  the  field  marshal,  Prince 
George,  and  the  foreign  ambassadors  are  here?  Who  of 
importance  is  left  in  Petersburg?  " 

Again  he  went  into  one  of  the  waiting  rooms.  He  ap- 
proached every  servant  who  passed  and  begged  them  to 
take  a  message  to  the  Emperor. 

"  It  is  important,"  he  pleaded.  "  His  throne,  his  life, 
are  in  danger !  Let  me  speak  with  him !  Let  me  tell  him 
what  I  know !  " 

The  servants  were  cross.  They  were  tired  from  the 
two  weeks'  debauchery  of  the  court.  They  refused. 
They  would  not  talk.  Again,  he  went  into  the  garden. 
This  time  he  met  Narcissus,  who  was  trying  to  adjust 
a  blue  satin  cape  with  purple  fringe  to  his  ridiculous, 
shapeless  body.  It  was  the  new  garment  which  he  was 
to  wear  in  honor  of  the  Emperor's  birthday.  The  soldier 
approached  him  as  a  last  resort. 

"  Narcissus,  I  have  a  message  for  your  royal  master." 
The  soldier  was  white  and  trembling.  "  I  rode  all  night 
from  Petersburg.  Can't  you  take  me  to  him?  Can't 
you  do  something?  " 

Narcissus's  devotion  to  his  master  and  his  subtle  mind 
reading  instinct  told  him  something  was  happening.  He 
sensed  danger. 

11  Wait  a  minute !  I'll  get  you  paper  and  pencil.  You 
write  it  down.  Then  I'll  take  the  message  to  him  my- 
self." 

The  young  soldier  told  what  he  knew  of  the  conspiracy, 

279 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

sealed  it,  and  wrote  upon  the  outside,  "  Very  Important" 
Then  he  remounted  his  weary  horse  and  turned  toward 
Petersburg,  feeling  his  ride  had  been  useless.  He  was 
hungry,  thirsty,  and  worn  out  with  loss  of  sleep. 

Narcissus  went  to  his  master's  sleeping  room  and 
awoke  him.  Peter  III  was  half  drunk,  as  was  usual  in 
the  morning.  This  morning,  in  addition,  he  was  in  a 
bad  temper.  His  hands  were  unsteady.  His  head 
ached.  His  eyes  were  blurred  by  the  unnatural,  heavy 
sleep  of  a  few  hours. 

"  By  the  body  of  Holy  Isaac,  I  will  have  you  knouted 
for  waking  me,  Narcis!  I'll  order  it  done  right  now!  " 
stretching  out  one  skeleton  hand  for  a  yellow  silk  bell- 
rope. 

"  My  blessed  master,  a  messenger  brought  this  letter 
from  Petersburg.  I  don't  know  who  he  was.  He  rode 
all  night  to  get  it  here.  It  is  important.  Open  it  now." 

"  I  told  you  you  could  be  Emperor,  here  in  Oranien- 
baum,  yesterday,  while  I  was  on  the  yacht!  To-day  I'm 
Emperor  myself  and  I  am  going  to  do  as  I  please.  Put 
it  on  that  silver  tray  there  —  with  the  other  letters  which 
I  have  not  read." 

"  Please,  Master,  open  it  now!  " 

"Get  out!"  reaching  toward  the  yellow  bell-rope 
again.  "  Get  out,  I  say!  " 

Narcissus  saw  the  mood  his  master  was  in.  He  knew 
there  was  no  use  in  argument.  He  sadly  left  the  room. 
He  went  down  stairs  and  out  upon  the  level,  stone  en- 
trance and  sat  down  beside  one  of  the  marble  urns  and 
looked  out  over  the  Gulf. 

The  summer  day  was  oppressive.  Moveless,  leaden 
haze  veiled  the  water.  The  hot  sun  steeped  the  spruce 
and  pine  woods  and  scented  the  heavy  air.  An  unex- 
plained fear  oppressed  Narcissus.  He  divined  what  was 

280 


UNDERTAKING  OF  MONSIEUR  ORLOV 

going  on.  In  his  anxiety  he  had  forgotten  his  breakfast. 
He  had  forgotten,  too,  his  new  costume  for  the  birthday. 
When  he  could  endure  the  silence  and  inaction  no  longer, 
he  determined  to  make  another  effort  to  awaken  the 
drunken  court.  He  made  his  way  into  Elizabeth  Wor- 
onzov's  room.  That  luxurious  lady  was  awake.  The 
thought  of  triumph  did  not  permit  rest.  But  she  was 
exhausted  from  the  two  weeks'  dissipation,  and  the  conse- 
quent loss  of  sleep. 

"  I  beg  your  Highness  to  go  at  once  to  the  Emperor 
and  get  him  to  read  the  letter  a  soldier  rode  last  night 
from  Petersburg  to  bring!  " 

"  Nonsense,  Narcis !  Of  what  importance  are  letters 
from  Petersburg,  or  from  anywhere  else  —  when  the 
court  is  here?  There  aren't  any  people  left  to  write 
letters,"  she  continued,  haughtily. 

"  Get  out,  Narcis !  I've  sent  for  my  breakfast.  I 
have  affairs  of  my  own  to  think  about." 

She  lay  indolently  back  among  the  pillows  and  dreamed 
of  the  morrow,  of  Friday,  June  the  twenty-ninth.  After 
the  midday  dinner  on  that  day,  Catherine  Alexevna  was  to 
be  made  way  with.  She,  Elizabeth  Woronzov,  would  be 
regent.  The  Emperor  would  depart  for  the  war.  She 
would  rule  alone.  How  could  she  waste  time  upon  the 
fool,  Narcissus?  Until  her  breakfast  came  she  tried 
to  enumerate  from  memory  some  of  the  fabulous  gems 
that  had  belonged  to  Elizabeth  Petrovna. 

About  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Peter  III  arose. 
He  breakfasted  alone  and  sat  down  to  smoke.  He  was 
weary  and  worn  out.  He  denied  admittance  to  every 
one.  He  felt  need  of  quiet  and  recuperation.  After 
awhile  he  walked  about  the  room  a  little,  in  order  to 
strengthen  and  stretch  his  weak  legs  and  increase  his 
circulation.  Then,  he  remembered  the  letter  which 

281 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

Narcissus  had  brought.  He  paused  by  the  table  and 
looked  down.  An  oblong  silver  tray,  littered  with  un- 
read letters,  lay  upon  it.  He  picked  up  the  top  letter. 
'  That  must  be  the  one,"  he  thought.  He  saw  "  Very 
Important "  written  across  it.  A  wave  of  fretful  emo- 
tion swept  him. 

"  I  said  I  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  business  until 
after  my  birthday.  It's  an  Emperor's  pride  to  keep  his 
word.  I'll  keep  mine,"  and  he  dropped  the  letter  back 
upon  the  tray. 

About  midnight,  when  the  sun  dropped  below  the 
horizon  for  a  little  while  and  a  cooling  wind  sprang  up 
and  sang  blithely  in  the  tops  of  the  tall  pine  trees,  he 
went  out-of-doors  and  walked  slowly  down  to  the  edge  of 
the  Gulf.  Elizabeth  Woronzov  came  out  and  joined 
him,  but  he  sent  her  away  again.  He  told  Narcissus  to 
bring  the  new  violin  that  had  come  from  Italy.  A  vague 
questioning  touched  his  mind  for  a  moment  as  to  why  no 
messengers  from  Petersburg  had  reached  Oranienbaum 
that  day.  He  dismissed  the  thought,  however,  lifted 
the  violin  to  his  chin,  looked  out  across  the  pallid  water 
toward  the  old  home  of  his  childhood  in  Sweden,  and 
alone  in  the  night  played  himself  back  to  peace  and  calm 
of  soul. 


282 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    LAST   NIGHT 

On  the  morning  of  June  the  twenty-ninth  the  cavalcade 
that  set  out  from  Oranienbaum  toward  Peterhof  for  the 
birthday  resembled  in  glittering  color  and  general  gayety, 
a  circus  procession,  or  the  first  rising  of  the  curtain  upon 
a  new  comic  opera.  Elizabeth  Woronzov  and  Peter  III 
came  first  in  a  crystal  and  gold  carriage,  with  six  out- 
riders in  yellow.  Elizabeth  Woronzov  was  wearing  the 
jewels  and  the  decorations  of  an  Empress.  The  Order 
of  Catherine  blazed  across  her  breast.  The  flowers  upon 
her  head  duplicated  the  Russian  crown.  Pink  pearls 
circled  her  throat.  Next,  came  Narcissus  in  purple  and 
blue  satin,  and  golden  bells.  Then,  the  seventeen  court 
beauties,  crowned  with  flowers,  and  in  gorgeous  brocades. 
They  carried  long,  pearl-handled  parasols  of  bright  silk. 
The  carriage  wheels  and  the  necks  of  the  horses  were 
twined  with  flowers.  Prime  Minister  Woronzov,  Prince 
George,  the  foreign  ambassadors,  were  in  gala  attire  and 
riding  in  carriages  of  state. 

The  summer  residents  of  the  neighboring  villas,  and 
peasants  from  the  fields,  lined  the  road  to  see  this  long- 
talked-of  procession.  And  the  procession  moved  slowly 
along  the  sandy  highway,  enjoying  its  own  appearance, 
in  the  June  weather,  and  the  sensation  it  created.  There 
was  laughter.  There  was  merriment  and  gay  song. 
There  was  a  constant  expression  of  homage  to  Elizabeth 

283 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

Woronzov.  Each  seemed  to  vie  with  the  other  in  flat- 
tery to  this  young  Empress  to  be.  Peter  III  was  in  a 
radiant  mood.  He  was  having  his  own  way,  and  demon- 
strating publicly  that  he  was  right  and  other  people 
wrong,  which  was  something  that  pleased  his  peculiar 
temperament.  Elizabeth  Woronzov  was  haughty  and 
condescending.  She  treated  every  one  with  the  disdain 
which  her  great  position  seemed  to  her  to  warrant.  She 
looked  out  upon  the  Gulf,  tilled  fields  and  forests,  indeed 
upon  the  outspread  landscape  of  Russia  that  unrolled 
beside  them,  with  a  pleased  air  of  possession. 

Old  Marshal  Miinnich  rode  with  Prime  Minister  Wor- 
onzov. He  was  silent  and  distrait.  Peterhof  and 
Oranienbaum  recalled  his  youth  and  Peter  the  Great, 
whom  he  had  visited  in  both  these  palaces  under  different 
conditions.  He  recalled  sadly  the  great  peasant's  son 
—  Mentchikov —  of  whom  Peter  had  made  a  prince,  and 
had  built  Oranienbaum  for  him  as  a  gift.  He  contrasted 
sadly  the  present  with  the  past,  and  especially  the  Great 
Peter  with  this  grandson  who  bore  so  many  marks  of 
physical  and  mental  degeneration. 

"  No  one  will  ever  rule  Russia  successfully,"  he  medi- 
tated, "  who  is  not  powerful  and  defiant,  and  loves  the 
joy  of  life.  Any  less  vivid  personality  will  be  swallowed 
up  by  its  complex  immensity  and  destroyed." 

Narcissus  was  unhappy  in  spite  of  his  attire  and  the 
honor  of  a  carriage  to  himself.  His  heart  was  filled  with 
foreboding  and  fear.  He  felt  dumbly  that  the  end  had 
come.  His  soul  was  inarticulate  and  he  suffered.  Not 
once  did  he  shake  his  shining  bells  nor  describe  his  antics. 
He  sat  a  doleful,  dumpy  figure  in  blue  satin  and  purple, 
with  loose,  down  hanging  lips. 

When  they  reached  Peterhof,  there  was  no  one  to 
greet  them  and  no  sign  of  life.  The  only  sound  was  the 

284 


THE  LAST  NIGHT 

prolonged,  powerful  baying  of  English  hounds  chained 
within  the  palace.  The  cavalcade  halted  and  waited. 
No  one  appeared.  Peter  III  sent  an  equerry  to  find  why 
no  one  came  to  meet  them.  The  equerry  returned  with 
the  startling  information  that  the  palace  was  empty.  Al- 
though the  doors  and  windows  were  open,  there  was  no 
one  within.  Peter  III  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Every- 
one was  astonished.  There  was  no  precedent  for  an 
affront  like  this.  Nothing  of  this  kind  had  happened 
before.  They  dismounted  and  distributed  themselves 
throughout  the  empty  palace  and  the  gardens.  Elizabeth 
Woronzov  was  the  only  one  who  was  happy.  She  felt 
the  Empress  did  not  dare  meet  her  and  had  fled.  Flat- 
tered pride  kept  her  happy. 

Dinner  time  approached.  There  was  nothing  to  eat 
in  Peterhof.  The  distance  to  Oranienbaum  was  consid- 
erable. They  began  to  suffer  from  hunger.  Peter  III 
had  forgotten  his  can  of  German  smoking  tobacco,  his 
can  of  Knaster,  which  occasioned  his  chief  discomfort. 
He  began  to  curse  and  swear  and  abuse  every  one. 

"I'll  have  her  beheaded  for  this  — see  if  I  don't!" 
he  blustered.  "I'll  teach  her  to  play  a  trick  on  me !  " 

Narcissus  had  fled  to  a  remote  part  of  the  garden 
where  he  hid  himself  where  no  one  could  find  him.  The 
foreign  ambassadors  took  their  note  books,  distributed 
themselves  comfortably  in  sheltered  places  and  calmly 
recorded  the  happenings  for  their  courts  at  home.  Mar- 
shal Miinnich  and  Premier  Woronzov  avoided  each  oth- 
er's eyes.  Neither  wished  to  read  what  he  saw  in  the 
eyes  of  the  other.  Both  had  premonition  of  what  had 
occurred.  The  court  beauties  flirted  gayly  with  their 
admirers  in  the  arbors  and  the  summer  pavilions.  They 
spread  resplendent  trains  of  gold  and  silver  brocade 
across  the  smooth,  green  lawns.  The  sharp  stilettos  of 

285 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

their  laughter  shone  from  moment  to  moment  among  the 
blossoming  syringa  bushes  and  the  beeches. 

"  My  dear  Uncle,"  queried  Elizabeth  Woronzov  of 
the  Prime  Minister,  "  what  do  you  suppose  is  the  cause  of 
this  ridiculous  insult  from  Madame  La  Ressource?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  something  serious,  Elizabeth 
Romanovna." 

"  How  can  it  be  serious,  dear  Uncle,  when  the  people 
of  Russia  —  of  consequence  —  are  here?  " 

"  Yes, —  we  are  here !  "  he  sighed.  "  But  the  army, 
the  officers,  some  of  the  men  of  the  navy,  Catherine 
Alexevna  —  and  Panin  —  are  in  Petersburg." 

;' What  difference  do  they  make?  Is  not  the  Em- 
peror here?  " 

"  Emperors  have  been  dethroned,"  he  replied,  with 
slow  and  disagreeable  significance. 

Fear  bleached  her  face  to  a  peculiar  pallor. 

"  If  it  was  not  wise,  dear  Uncle,  to  leave  Petersburg, 
why  did  you  not  say  so  to  his  Majesty?  " 

"  Did  you  ever  know,  Elizabeth  Romanovna,  that 
madman  to  listen  to  any  one  —  especially  if  it  was  for  his 
good?" 

The  voice  was  stern.  The  premier  believed  he  had 
cast  lot  with  the  wrong  party,  led  on  by  hope  of  his  niece 
becoming  regent,  and  belief  that  he  would  make  millions 
out  of  army  equipment  in  the  war  with  Denmark.  Eliza- 
beth Woronzov  fell  from  her  height  of  happiness. 

"  Do  you  not  recall,  Elizabeth  Romanovna,  that  for 
two  days  no  messengers  from  Petersburg  have  come  to 
Oranienbaum?  Do  you  not  recall  that  no  daily  word 
has  come  from  Kronstadt?  What  can  that  mean?  " 

"  But  is  not  the  Emperor  —  the  —  Emperor?" 

"He  is!  But  suppose  he  is  a  fool,  too?  Whatever 
Madame  La  Ressource  may  or  may  not  be,  she  certainly 

286 


THE  LAST  NIGHT 

is  not  a  fool,"  he  explained,  with  no  consideration  for  his 
listener's  feelings.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  the  at- 
titude of  the  world  had  changed.  Everything  was  wrong, 
where,  just  a  second  before,  everything  was  right. 

Peter  III  came  out  the  front  door  of  the  palace. 

"  I  cannot  find  a  single  can  of  Knaster  anywhere.  I 
keep  a  supply  always!  She's  thrown  them  out  to  annoy 
me.  Do  you  know  where  my  cousin,  Prince  George,  is? 
He  probably  has  some  German  smoking  tobacco  with 
him."  He  passed  hurriedly  by  the  premier  and  his  niece 
in  search  of  his  cousin. 

The  day  had  been  intensely  hot.  Late  afternoon  came. 
Everyone  suffered  from  hunger.  They  had  arisen  early. 
They  had  taken  the  long  drive.  They  were  worn  out, 
hungry,  ill  tempered.  The  flowers  that  crowned  the 
court  beauties  and  Elizabeth  Woronzov  were  withered. 
Their  gowns  looked  crushed  and  soiled.  Peter  III  de- 
cided to  return  to  Oranienbaum  speedily.  They  were 
seated  in  the  carriages  and  ready,  when  soldiers  rode  up 
and  told  him  he  was  under  arrest.  Peter  III  was  so  sur- 
prised he  could  not  speak.  Elizabeth  Woronzov  an- 
swered. 

"He  is  Emperor!     Who  can  arrest  him?" 

"  The  new  Empress !  She  was  consecrated  this  morn- 
ing in  the  Cathedral  of  Kasan.  The  army,  the  navy, 
the  people  have  sworn  allegiance." 

Elizabeth  Woronzov's  dream  of  glory  was  over.  She 
sank  back  in  the  carriage  a  dull,  frightened  figure.  The 
entire  court,  excepting  only  old  Marshal  Miinnich  and 
Peter  III,  were  sent  back  to  Oranienbaum.  Marshal 
Miinnich  and  Peter  III  dismounted  and  reentered  Peter- 
hof. 

In  the  splendid,  empty  palace  with  its  walls  of  mala- 

287 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

chite  and  amber,  which  bore  his  name,  and  which  his  all- 
conquering  grandfather  had  built,  the  unworthy  descend- 
ant, pitiful  and  trembling,  with  Marshal  Miinnich  by 
his  side,  read  the  demand  for  abdication  sent  by  Cather- 
ine Alexevna. 

"  What  shall  I  do,  Miinnich?     What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"Fight!" 

"How  can  I?" 

"  You  have  friends !  With  your  Holstein  Guard  from 
Oranienbaum,  and  five  thousand  other  Germans  upon 
whom  you  can  depend,  we  will  march  to  Petersburg. 
When  the  people  know  you  are  there,  they  will  come  over 
to  you,  because  you  are  a  Romanoff.  I  will  command 
myself !  "  declared  the  battle-hearted  old  man.  "  In  the 
meantime,  we  will  send  word  to  the  army  at  Schliissel- 
berg  and  to  the  navy  at  Kronstadt.  They  may  join  you. 
I  think  myself  they  will !  In  twenty-four  hours  the  city 
and  the  throne  will  be  yours.  Why,  this  does  not  amount 
to  anything,  this  demand  that  you  abdicate.  It  is  merely 
a  piece  of  paper.  Look  at  it.  What  is  that  worth? 
Refuse.  That's  the  thing  to  do.  Then  —  fight." 

"  If  I  were  not  so  hungry,  Miinnich  —  and  if  I  had  my 
can  of  Knaster,  perhaps  I  would.  But  I  don't  feel  like 
doing  anything  just  now." 

"This  is  no  time  for  feelings,  your  Majesty!  Tell 
the  messengers  to  return  to  Petersburg.  Tell  them  you 
will  answer  —  in  person  —  with  the  army.  Wait!  — 
I'll  tell  the  messengers  for  you." 

Peter  III  sat  a  shivering,  shrunken,  helpless  figure  be- 
side a  little  gilt  table,  in  the  luxurious  malachite  salon. 
His  tiny  face  with  the  pale,  gray,  restless  eyes  seemed  to 
have  faded  merely  to  the  ghost  of  a  face.  His  thin, 
birdlike  hands,  on  which  great  Kashmiri  sapphires  rc- 

288 


THE  LAST  NIGHT 

sponded  sweetly  to  the  divine  blue  splendor  of  the  walls, 
clutched  the  table  edge  for  support  and  trembled.  Be- 
side him  the  iron-faced  old  man  stood,  who  belonged  to  a 
sterner  age,  and  who  tried  to  inspirit  and  to  re-invigorate 
him. 

"  I  tell  you  what  to  do,  Munnich,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  Tell  them  to  come  to  Oranienbaum.  Tell  them  I  will 
decide  to-morrow.  I  have  not  eaten  since  morning. 
Can  a  man  decide  important  things  when  his  stomach  is 
empty?  I'm  exhausted.  Besides,  when  I  get  my  can 
of  Knaster,  it  will  steady  my  nerves.  Why  couldn't  she 
have  waited  a  day?  It  was  a  shame  to  spoil  my  party  I  " 

The  next  morning  in  Oranienbaum  the  discussion  be- 
gan again  between  Peter  III  and  the  old  man.  They  sat 
upon  the  terrace  beside  the  sea  which  was  pallid  and  pet- 
ulant. There  was  no  sun.  A  storm  impended.  The 
atmosphere  was  orange-tinted  and  threatening. 

"  But  what  if  I  do  not  want  to  be  Emperor?  What 
if  I'd  rather  go  back  home  and  be  Duke  of  Holstein? 
I'd  rather  live  quietly  there  with  my  music.  I  could  be 
happy!  There's  nothing  here  I  want.  The  Russians 
are  a  pack  of  hyenas.  I'd  be  glad  to  get  away." 

"  But  there  is  no  question  of  getting  away,  your  Maj- 
esty! They  would  not  let  you  go  no  matter  what  they 
promise.  If  you  are  not  upon  the  throne,  your  existence 
—  it  does  not  matter  where  upon  the  face  of  the  earth 
it  may  be  —  would  be  a  source  of  danger  to  Catherine 
Alexevna  and  the  Orlovs.  They  could  not  sleep,  if  you 
lived.  If  you  do  not  do  as  I  tell  you,  take  your  men  and 
fight,  they  will  murder  you." 

"  But  suppose  I  promise  I  would  never  cause  trouble?  " 

"What  difference  would  that  make?  They  are  not 
relying  upon  promises.  They  are  playing  a  sure  game. 

289 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

No  matter  what  you  promise,  can't  .you  see  the  people 
would  think  of  you,  know  you  are  alive,  and  speak  of 
you?  That  would  be  a  menace  to  them." 

"  I  suppose  you  know  best,  Miinnich !  But  I  cannot 
make  myself  something  I  am  not.  I  cannot  be  a  states- 
man or  a  warrior,  all  in  a  minute  because  some  one  tells 
me  to,  any  more  than  I  could  be  a  bird  of  paradise.  I'm 
miscast  in  life.  That's  what's  the  matter  with  me,  Miin- 
nich !  I  was  made  for  an  artist  musician,  not  a  warrior. 
There's  no  use,  dear  old  Miinnich !  You  cannot  make  a 
man  out  of  me.  I'm  going  to  sign  and  get  out  of  Russia. 
I've  had  twenty  years  of  misery  here.  It  is  worth  risking 
life  to  get  away." 

"  But  your  pride?  Your  duty  to  your  name,  to  the 
great  destiny  to  which  your  Majesty  was  born?  " 

"  I  am  honestly  more  sorry  for  you,  Miinnich,  than  I 
am  for  myself!  You  will  grieve  over  the  dethronement 
of  my  race.  You  have  the  big  and  noble  soul  that  com- 
prehends. Dear  old  Miinnich!  I  am  not  a  heroic, 
battle-tempered  conqueror  like  you.  Mine  is  the  soul 
of  a  vagabond  artist.  These  royal  clothes,  these  decora- 
tions, are  an  accident  I  could  not  help.  God  knows  I 
would  have  helped  if  I  could !  ' 

Marshal  Miinnich  bent  his  head  and  wept. 

Two  weeks  later  the  long,  gray,  •  sub- Arctic  twilight, 
which  was  a  prolongation  of  the  Polar  day,  set  in  with 
rain.  Peter  III  and  Narcissus  were  alone  in  the  Castle 
of  Ropsha.  They  sat  in  the  long,  narrow,  gloomy  din- 
ing room.  Trees  and  shrubs  crowded  close  about  the 
windows.  Sometimes,  their  long  branches  tapped  upon 
them  like  ghosts  that  tried  to  warn.  The  room  did  not 
look  like  the  dining  room  of  a  royal  dwelling.  There 
was  no  joy  in  it.  Its  walls  were  hung  with  weapons  and 
sacred  icons.  Over  one  end  of  the  table  a  pictured  head 

290 


THE  LAST  NIGHT 

of  the  Crucified  One  lifted  a  pale  face  adown  which  tears 
were  discernible.  Two  tall  candles,  placed  on  either  end 
of  the  table,  lighted  the  room.  In  that  strange  rain- 
filtered  pallor,  which  was  neither  day  nor  night,  the  flames 
fluttered  as  if  frightened  and  lost  their  lustrous  gold. 
They  were  waiting  for  dinner  to  be  served.  Peter  III 
was  hoping  for  a  visit  that  night  from  Elizabeth  Woron- 
zov  and  Marshal  Miinnich,  whom  he  had  not  seen  since 
he  had  come  here  to  await  the  promised  return  to  Sweden. 
He  was  hopping  about  the  room  restlessly  in  his  peculiar, 
birdlike  manner.  His  mind  was  full  of  plans  as  usual. 
He  was  not  discontented  nor  unhappy.  Narcissus  sat 
upon  the  floor.  He  was  wearing  the  worn  blue  satin 
suit  he  had  put  on  for  the  birthday  dinner.  He  sat  so 
motionless  his  little  joy  bells  did  not  tingle.  From  time 
to  time  he  rolled  his  great  white  eyes  toward  the  win- 
dows, when  the  black  branches  tapped  too  heavily  upon 
them.  While  his  body  was  motionless,  his  mind  was  in- 
tensely alert. 

"  Dinner  is  late,  Narcis !     Go  see  what's  the  matter." 

Narcissus  walked  obediently  away.  But  apparently 
he  had  no  interest  in  the  order.  He  was  gone  a  long 
time.  His  master  became  restless,  stopped  pacing  the 
floor  and  listened  for  his  coming. 

4  There  is  no  one  in  the  castle,  my  Master.     It  is 
empty.     Even  the  cooks  are  gone." 

Narcissus  dropped  limply  down  upon  the  floor  and 
stared  up  at  him. 

"Empty!"  The  word  made  Peter  III  recall  that 
other  day  when  the  equerry  had  brought  him  word  that 
Peterhof  was  empty.  He  began  repeating  the  surprising 
word  to  himself  as  if  he  did  not  comprehend  its  meaning. 
He  rang  sharply  to  make  sure.  There  was  no  answer. 
Peter  III  did  not  know  what  to  think.  Fear  began  to 

291 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

tap  busily  against  the  sensitive  brain  of  Narcissus.  He 
inclined  his  head  toward  the  door  that  led  —  at  one  end 
of  the  room  —  into  the  outer  hall. 

"  My  Master  —  take  off  your  uniform !  Put  on  a 
servant's  suit,  take  what  money  and  jewels  you  have,  and 
escape  —  through  the  kitchen  entrance !  " 

"Escape?     What  from?" 

"  Don't  wait  to  ask,  my  Master.  Go,  while  there  is 
time.  Something  terrible  is  going  to  happen.  Always, 
my  blessed  Master,  I  have  warned  you.  You  have  never 
heeded.  Do  not  question  to-night.  Go !  " 

"  Nonsense,  Narcis !  You  have  an  ague.  That's 
what's  the  matter  with  you.  Elizabeth  Woronzov  and 
Marshal  Miinnich  are  coming  to  se  me  to-night." 

"  Do  not  believe  it!  Take  what  gold  you  have,  dis- 
guise yourself,  and  leave  the  castle.  Perhaps  you  could 
buy  your  way  back  to  Sweden.  There  you  would  be 
safe." 

The  gray,  spectral  rain  beat  upon  the  windows  and 
the  black  trees  bent  to  touch  them. 

Then,  upon  a  sudden,  it  was  as  if  the  room  were 
strangely  lighted,  and  by  something  evil.  Two  glowing, 
golden  figures,  diffusing  light  like  suns,  stood  in  the 
doorway  —  Gregory  and  Alexis  Orlov.  They  were  in 
full  regalia.  They  had  just  come  from  the  first  court 
which  Catherine  Alexevna  was  holding.  Its  atmosphere 
and  its  glitter  were  still  upon  them.  For  a  few  moments 
no  one  spoke.  Narcissus  crouched  nearer  and  nearer  to 
the  floor  as  if  he  would  gladly  fade  into  it.  The  Grand 
Duke  broke  the  silence. 

"  You  two  have  taken  my  throne  away  —  and  my  fam- 
ily—  and  now  I  suppose  you  are  after  my  life." 

Gregory  Orlov  felt  for  his  sword. 

Like  lightning  Narcissus  darted  under  the  long  table, 

292 


THE  LAST  NIGHT 

climbed  upon  a  divan  on  the  other  side,  snatched  a  sword 
from  the  wall  and  gave  it  to  the  Grand  Duke.  With  a 
like  nimbleness  he  knocked  over  the  two  candles  and  left 
the  room  in  perplexing  dimness.  In  this  gray,  Arctic 
prolongation  of  day  into  night,  the  Grand  Duke  looked 
more  like  a  spirit  than  a  man  of  flesh  and  blood.  Even 
Gregory  Orlov,  as  insensitive  to  impressions  as  he  usually 
was,  felt  it.  Something  almost  like  fear  passed  over  him. 
He  turned  to  his  brother  Alexis. 

"  Take  that  vicious  little  black  devil  out  and  put  an 
end  to  him!  " 

Two  white  moon  eyes  of  horror  looked  up  at  the  burly 
Alexis.  Alexis  took  a  twist  in  the  blue-purple  doublet 
of  Narcissus  at  the  back  of  the  neck  band,  shut  off  his 
breath  deftly,  and  carried  him  out  through  the  door. 
The  two  men,  who  faced  each  other  in  the  game  of 
death  in  the  long,  dim  dining  room,  heard  a  savage 
shiver  of  little  bells.  Then,  silence.  Then,  once  again 
that  discordant  shrilling,  after  which  a  weight  that  fell 
dully  dropped  among  the  syringa  bushes  beneath  the 
window. 

Alexis  Orlov  did  not  reenter  to  see  what  was  happen- 
ing. He  understood  that  Gregory  did  not  wish  even  a 
brother's  eyes  upon  the  work  of  to-night.  The  steel- 
like  suppleness  and  thinness  of  Peter  III,  who  fought  with 
the  desperation  of  a  demon,  kept  the  huge  Orlov  at  bay. 
Orlov  could  not  meet  this  dazzling  agility.  But  he  ex- 
celled in  strength  and  powers  of  resistance.  At  first, 
there  was  something  uncanny  about  the  silence  of  Peter 
III,  his  fearlessness,  and  his  ghastly  appearance  in  the 
uncertain  light,  that  lamed  the  skill  of  Orlov.  Surely 
this  strange,  thin  figure  with  the  wild  and  swaying  arms, 
twitching  face  and  dim  eyes  that  fought  opposite  him, 
was  a  spirit  and  not  a  man.  And  the  figure  did  not 

293 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

speak.  It  did  not  reproach.  It  did  not  beg  for  life.  It 
evidently  felt  neither  anger  nor  grief.  A  sensation  new 
to  Gregory  Orlov  arose  within  him.  It  was  shame.  He 
was  ashamed  of  the  great  hulking  body  that  fought  for 
the  death  of  this  helpless,  trembling  phantom.  He  de- 
termined not  to  kill  him  with  the  sword.  At  least  he 
would  spare  himself  the  crime  of  shedding  blood.  That 
he  would  not  do.  He  fought  now  to  disarm  him.  This 
was  merely  a  question  of  successfully  countering  and 
wearing  his  opponent  out.  When  at  length  he  succeeded 
in  doing  this,  twisted  the  sword  from  his  hand  and  it 
hissed  across  the  room,  he  saw,  with  a  fresh  pang  of 
shame  and  discomfort,  that  the  white,  gemmed  hand 
that  had  held  that  sword,  was  the  size  of  the  hand  of  a 
woman.  He  could  do  no  more.  He  called  his  brother 
Alexis  and  turned  and  left  the  room. 

It  was  a  good  hour  later  when  the  rough,  echoing 
voice  of  Alexis  called  to  him  and  told  him  to  reenter. 
On  the  floor  beside  the  dining  table  lay  the  dead  body  of 
Peter  III.  A  napkin  was  stuffed  in  his  mouth,  and  an- 
other tied  tightly  about  his  throat.  After  death  came 
the  face  seemed  to  have  caved  in  and  shrunken,  until  it 
looked  no  larger  than  the  face  of  a  child.  The  same 
thing  was  true  of  the  body.  It  was  merely  a  thin  mask 
of  flesh,  ready  at  any  time  to  crumble,  that  had  held  this 
phantom  of  a  ruler.  The  two  stalwart  men  of  the  people, 
who  stood  and  looked  down  at  him  where  he  lay  dead 
upon  the  floor,  symbolized  the  rising  might  of  the  masses, 
which  in  time  would  overthrow  the  frail  and  fading  de- 
lusions of  kings  and  kingly  power. 

"  I'll  go  and  bring  Narcis,"  declared  Alexis,  brusquely, 
without  any  hesitation  or  compassion.  He  opened  the 
long  French  window,  searched  among  the  wet  syringa 
bushes,  and  then  came  back. 

294 


THE  LAST  NIGHT 

"  There !  —  let  the  two  fools  rest  together !  "  he  de- 
clared in  disgust,  as  he  flung  the  body  brutally  upon  the 
floor  beside  his  master. 

They  reentered  the  palace  long  after  the  members  of 
the  court  had  gone.  When  Catherine  Alexevna  came 
forward  to  meet  them,  robed  royally  in  white  satin  and 
diamonds,  which  she  had  put  on  to  receive  the  first  hom- 
age of  the  nobility,  she  was  as  cold  and  brilliantly  re- 
flecting to  look  upon  as  snow  wastes  beneath  the  sun. 

Gregory  Orlov  bowed  in  his  invariably  graceful  man- 
ner, but  he  did  not  hasten  to  speak.  Alexis  bent  his  tall 
body  with  courtly  reverence  and  declared,  "  His  Majesty, 
Peter  III,  has  just  died  in  the  Castle  of  Ropsha  —  of  an 
attack  of  colic." 

"  Have  the  body  taken  to  the  Cathedral  where  it  is 
my  pleasure  that  it  should  lie  in  state,"  was  the  calm 
reply. 

The  voice,  that  announced  to  Catherine  Alexevna  the 
death  of  Peter  III,  announced  at  the  same  time  the  pass- 
ing of  the  Romanoffs. 

In  the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  they  dined  together, 
amid  the  laugh  of  crystal  and  of  candles,  the  three  re- 
splendent new  colossi  who  bestrode  the  Slavic  world, 
Catherine  Alexevna,  and  Gregory  and  Alexis  Orlov. 
Russia  was  theirs.  A  greater  or  a  less  important  future 
depended  upon  their  adherence  to  each  other.  They 
could  not  hesitate  now.  The  die  was  cast.  Whatever 
occasion  demanded  must  be  done. 

"  A  crime  is  not  really  a  crime  in  a  sovereign,  the  way 
it  is  in  an  individual,"  declared  Gregory  Orlov  in  argu- 
ment, smiling  luxuriously  across  the  wine,  and  toying 
idly  with  a  glass  of  Siberian  crystal  which  was  tinted 
slightly  gray  like  a  moth's  wing. 

295 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

4  What  would  be  a  crime  in  an  individual,  is  in  a 
sovereign  an  impersonal  act  of  political  necessity,"  added 
the  bass  of  Alexis.  "  Great  virtues  are  for  little,  unim- 
portant people.  They  are  the  only  things  they  are  able 
to  own.  They  do  not  cost  expenditure  of  either  enter- 
prise or  daring." 

Catherine  Alexevna  knew  what  was  corning.  Her  own 
clear  mind  had  looked  ahead  and  seen,  just  as  theirs  had 
done.  She  could  not  turn  back.  There  was  no  way. 
She  was  confronted  again  with  the  old  complication  which 
Count  Bestushev-Rjumin  had  first  presented  to  her  in 
her  youth  —  the  choice  between  giving  up  her  own  life, 
or  taking  the  life  of  another. 

"  Besides,"  declared  Gregory  Orlov,  "  outside  the 
realm  of  politics,  one  is  justified  —  always  —  in  acts  of 
self-preservation." 

"  Out  with  it,  Orlov,"  she  demanded. 

"  You  have  succeeded  —  so  far  —  your  Majesty.  But 
to  make  success  permanent,  there  are  two  who  stand  in 
your  way.  As  long  as  they  live  neither  your  life  nor 
your  throne  are  safe." 

Alexis  Orlov  was  glad  his  brother  had  struck  at  the 
heart  of  the  matter.  He  looked  at  him  gratefully.  He 
had  reason  to  be  proud  of  Gregory. 

"  They  are  Prince  Ivan  Antonovicz,  and  the  daughter 
of  Elizabeth  Petrovna  and  Alexis  R'azumovsky.  She  is 
living  in  Florence  with  a  Russian  family.  These  two  are 
the  last  of  the  race.  Each  has  a  right  to  the  throne 
greater  than  your  own." 

Catherine  Alexevna  remembered  with  a  vividness  that 
was  painful  the  miniature  in  a  plain  frame  of  beveled 
gold,  which  she  herself  had  taken  from  the  dead  fingers 
of  Elizabeth  Petrovna.  Alexis  Razumovsky  had  begged 
for  it  to  be  given  to  him.  She  recalled  how  he  had  wept 

296 


THE  LAST  NIGHT 

and  kissed  it.  This  seemed  most  terrible  of  all.  And 
worst  —  was  her  own  ingratitude  toward  that  royal 
woman  whom  she  had  loved. 

"  She  —  the  girl  in  Florence  — -  does  not  know  who  she 
is,"  Alexis  Orlov  was  explaining.  "  It  will  be  easy  to 
lure  her  to  Russia,  and  then  — " 

Catherine  Alexevna  held  up  a  hand  to  stop  the  ex- 
planation. She  could  not  listen  to  it  now.  But  she 
knew  that  it  would  not  be  long  before  she  would  be  forced 
not  only  to  listen,  but  to  agree  to  that  unsaid  plan  of 
Alexis  Orlov.  She  had  heard  that  Ivan  Antonovicz  was 
an  idiot.  And  the  girl  in  Florence  —  she  avoided  defi- 
nite thought  of  her. 

When  the  two  Orlovs  arose  from  the  table  and  said 
good  night,  they  said  good  night,  not  to  Catherine 
Alexevna  whom  they  had  known  in  the  past,  their  old 
merry  companion  of  the  gentle  heart  and  gay  disguises, 
but  to  Catherine  the  Great,  who  would  hesitate  at  noth- 
ing. And  the  handsome  Orlovs  understood  this.  They 
knew  that  she  would  not  oppose  their  plans  for  the  two, 
which  made  life  safe  for  her,  and  smoothed  the  way  for 
that  ambitious  future  they  dreamed  for  themselves. 

It  was  as  the  Ghostly  Chancellor  had  predicted, —  she 
stood  upon  the  crest  of  the  world  alone.  And  as  she 
herself  had  predicted,  the  destruction  within  her  had 
become  complete.  Father,  mother,  husband,  friends, 
favorites,  lovers, —  they  were  all  gone,  and  their  going 
had  made  free  the  path  of  progress  for  her.  She  could 
think  very  clearly,  but  she  could  not  feel.  She  was 
merely  a  machine  of  state,  now,  that  wore  the  gems  of  a 
woman. 

In  her  own  room  she  did  not  call  her  women  to  dis- 
robe her.  She  stood  alone  by  the  window,  a  white  glit- 
tering figure  —  like  the  statuette  of  ivory  of  the  cold 

297 


THE  WHIRLWIND 

and  cruel  face  —  watching  the.  spectral  dawn  creep  over 
the  dead,  sleeping  city.  And  as  this  wan,  gray  dawn  was 
not  the  joyous,  golden  sunrise  of  more  fortunately  situ- 
ated lands,  she  knew  that  like  it  here  was  not  the  warmth 
of  life.  And  the  dead,  sleeping  city  —  lying  so  inert  and 
silent  under  the  new  dawn  —  seemed  to  be  conscious  of 
her  who  watched  it,  who  one  day  would  lash  it  into  life 
and  renewed  vigor,  and  whom,  in  return,  the  world  would 
call  "  the  Monster  of  the  North." 


THE   END 


NOTE. —  The  Grand  Duke  Paul,  who  came  after  Catherine  the  Great, 
was  not  the  son  of  Peter  the  Third,  who  never  had  any  children  of  his 
own.  He  was  the  son  of  Catherine  and  her  first  lover,  Saltikov.  For 
proof  of  this  see  any  authoritative  writer  on  the  history  of  the  Russian 
Eighteenth  Century. 

NOTE. —  Lomonossov,  Michail  Vassilevich  ( 1711-1765),  was  the  father 
of  Russian  poetry.  He  wrote  a  grammar  of  the  language  and  arranged 
the  rules  of  verse.  He  was  also  a  scientist  and  his  work  in  this  field  is 
considered  of  value  to-day. 

Dershawin,  Gavril  Romanovich  (1743-1816),  was  a  poet,  scholar,  sol- 
dier and  courtier.  He  is  the  greatest  Russian  poet  of  the  Eighteenth 
Century.  He  was  a  friend  of  Pushkin,  who  admired  him  greatly.  He 
first  won  recognition  by  the  poem  Felitsa,  under  which  title  he  sang  the 
praises  of  Catherine  the  Great.  He  is  celebrated  for  his  Ode  to  God, 
which  is  perhaps  the  most  widely  translated  poem  in  literature.  He  was 
a  lifelong  favorite  of  the  Empress. 

Novikov,  Nikolay  Ivanovich,  (1744-181).  A  Russion  writer  of  the 
reign  of  Catherine  the  Great,  was  a  journalist,  satirical  writer  and 
editor  of  The  Drone.  At  one  time  the  Empress  collaborated  with  him 
in  a  publication.  He  was  a  philanthropist  and  eager  for  the  study  and 
advancement  of  science  among  his  people. 

He  was  imprisoned  for  his  advanced  views.  It  was  the  Grand  Duke 
Paul  who  gave  him  freedom  again,  when  he  came  to  the  throne. 

Von-Visin,  Denis  Ivanovich  (1744-1792),  was  a  satirical  writer. 
His  best  comedies  are  The  Brigadier  and  The  Minor.  We  are  indebted 
to  his  letters  for  information  about  the  life  of  Catherine  herself,  and 
conditions  during  the  early  years  of  her  reign. 

When  Catherine  Alexevna  recalled  Count  Bestushev-Rjumin  from  exile 
she  had  deputations  meet  him  at  the  large  cities  along  the  way,  and  each 
deputation  presented  to  him  a  new  gift  and  a  new  honor. 

298 


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"  Ought  to  be  in  the  hands  of  everyone  who  cares  whether  or  not  his 
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The  LITERARY  DIGEST  says: 

OF  all  the  books  that  have  been  pub- 
lished which  treat  of  the  culinary  art, 
few  have  came  so  near  to  presenting  a  com- 
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ress of  her  husband  .  .  .  and  she  will  lay  a 
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for  the  generations  that  are  to  be." 

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Drama 
Play-Making 

A  Manual  of  Craftsmanship 
By  WILLIAM  ARCHER 

'  T  MAKE  bold  to  say,"  says  Brander  Matthews, 
JL  Professor  of  Dramatic  Literature  in  Columbia 
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the  clearness,  the  comprehensiveness,  the  insight, 
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"  He  tells  the  ardent  aspirant  how  to  choose  his 
themes;  how  to  master  the  difficult  art  of  expo- 
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how  to  combine,  as  he  goes  on,  tension  and  sus- 
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achieve  logic  for  construction;  how  to  attain 
climax  and  to  avoid  anti-climax;  and  how  to 
bring  his  play  to  a  close." 

8vo.    Cloth.   $2.00,  net 

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Educational 


The  Land  We  Live  In 

The  Book  of  Conservation 

By 

OVERTON  W.  PRICE 

With  an  Introduction  by 
GIFFORD  PINCHOT 

"  This  book  will  have  a  very  wide  distribution,  not  only 
in  libraries,  but  also  in  the  schools."  ROBERT  P.  BASS 

(Former  Governor  of  New  Hampshire,  and  President  of 
the  American  Forestry  Association) 

"  It  is  the  best  primer  on  general  conservation  for  older 
people  that  I  have  ever  seen,  and  the  good  it  will  do  will 
be  measured  only  by  the  circulation  it  receives." 

J.  B.  WHITE 

(President  of  the  National  Conservation  Congress) 

"I  wish  it  were  possible  to  have  the  volume  made  a 
text  book  for  every  public  school." 

WILLIAM  EDWARD  COFFIN 

(Vice-President  and  Chairman  of  the  Committee  on  Game 
Protective  Legislation  and  Preserves, 
Camp  Fire  Club  of  America) 

With  136  illustrations  selected  from  50,000  photographs 
8vo.    241  pages.    $1.50  net 

BOY  SCOUT  EDITION  — JACKET  IN  COLORS 


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Fiction 

The  Best  Short  Stories 
of  1915, 1916, 1917 

Edited  by 
.  EDWARD  J.  O'BRIEN 

FROM  every  point  of  view  —  from 
that  of  the  actual  probabilities  of 
reading  enjoyment  to  be  derived  from 
it  by  all  sorts  of  readers;  from  that  of 
the  vivid  and  varied,  but  always  valid, 
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—  THE  BEST  SHORT  STORIES 
warrants  an  emphatic  and  unconditional 
recommendation  to  all.  —  Life. 

Indispensable  to  every  student  of 
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successive  year  a  critical  and  historical 
survey  of  the  art  such  as  does  not  exist 
in  any  other  form.  —  Boston  Transcript. 

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War 


Beyond  the  Marne 

By 

HENRIETTE  CUVRU-MAGOT 


'ADEMOISELLE      HENRIETTE      is 

the  little  friend  and  neighbor 
of  Miss  Mildred  Aldrich  (author  of 
"  A  Hilltop  on  the  Marne,"  "  On  the 
Edge  of  the  War  Zone,"  etc.),  who 
came  to  Miss  Aldrich  the  day  after 
the  Germans  were  driven  away  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Marne  to  sug- 
gest that  they  visit  the  battlefield. 
Her  book  might  be  called  truly  a 
companion  volume  to  "  A  Hilltop  on 
the  Marne." 

12mo.   Cloth.   Illustrated.   $1.00  net 

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War 

Covered  With  Mud  and 
Glory 

A  Machine  Gun  Company  in  Action 

By 

GEORGES  LAFOND 

Sergeant-Major,  Territorial  Hussars,   French  Army;    Intelli- 
gence Officer,  Machine  Gun  Sections,  French  Colonial  Infantry. 

Translated  by 
EDWIN  GILE  RICH 

With  an  Introduction  by 
MAURICE  BARRES 

of  the  French  Academy 

The  Book  with 
GEORGES  CLEMENCEAITS 

Famous 
"  Tribute  to  the  Soldier*  of  France  " 


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War 

On  the  Edge  of  the  War  Zone 

From  the  Battle  of  the  Marne 

to  the  Entrance  of  the 

Stars  and  Stripes 

By  MILDRED  ALDRICH 

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on  the  Marne." 

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"  Told  in  a  French  Garden."  Net,  $1.25 

Miss  Aldrich  tells  what  has  happened  from  the  day  when 
the  Germans  were  turned  back  almost  at  her  very  door,  to 
the  never-to-be-forgotten  moment  when  the  news  reached 
France  that  the  United  States  had  entered  the  war. 


Told  in  a  French  Garden: 
August,  1914 

By  MILDRED  ALDRICH 

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The  White  Flame  of  France 

By 

MAUDE  RADFORD  WARREN 

Author  of 
"  Peter  Peter,"  "  Barbara's  Marriages,"  etc. 

THE  front-line  trenches  at  Rheims  during 
a  bombardment  when  the  shells  were 
whistling  over,  two  Zeppelin  raids  in  London, 
the  heroic  services  of  devoted  actors  and 
actresses  when  they  played  for  the  soldiers 
of  Verdun,;  the  irony  of  the  mad  slaughter, 
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the  real  meaning  of  the  war  —  all  these  things 
are  interpreted  in  this  remarkable  book  by 
a  novelist  with  a  brilliant  record  in  the  art 
of  writing,  who  spent  more  than  half  a  year 
"  over  there." 

12 mo.    Illustrated.    Net,  $1.50 


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War 

You  Who  Can  Help 

Paris  Letters  of  an  American  Army  Officer's 

Wife,  from  August,  1916,  to 

January,  1918 

By 

MARY  SMITH  CHURCHILL 


THE  writer  of  these  letters  is  the  wife 
of  Lieutenant-Colonel  Marlborough 
Churchill,  who,  the  year  before  the  entrance 
of  the  United  States  into  the  war,  was  an 
American  military  observer  in  France,  and 
later  became  a  member  of  General  Pershing's 
staff.  Mrs.  Churchill  volunteered  her  serv- 
ices in  Paris  in  connection  with  the  American 
Fund  for  the  French  Wounded  —  "  the  A.  F. 
F.  W."  —  and  these  are  her  letters  home, 
written  with  no  thought  of  publication,  but 
simply  to  tell  her  family  of  the  work  in  which 
she  was  engaged. 

12 mo.    Cloth.    Illustrated.    Net,  $1.25 

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Camp  Devens 

Described  and  Photographed  by 

ROGER  BATCHELDER 

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"  An  accurate  and  complete  description  by  pen 
and  lens  of  Camp  Devens."  —  Roger  Merrill, 
Major,  A.  G.  R.  C.,  isist  Infantry  Brigade. 

12mo.    With  77  illustrations.   50  cents,  net 


Camp  Upton 

Described  and  Photographed  by 

ROGER  BATCHELDER 

A  companion  volume  to  "  Camp  Devens,"  and 
like  it,  a  book  that  fills  a  long-felt  want. 

12mo.     Illustrated  with  photographs 
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War  Poetry 

Buddy's  Blighty 

and  other  Verses  from  the  Trenches 

By 

LIEUTENANT  JACK  TURNER,  M.  C. 

HERE  is  a  volume  of  poems  that  move  the 
spirit  to  genuine  emotion,  because  every 
line  pictures  reality  as  the  author  knows  it.  The 
range  of  subjects  covers  the  many-sided  life  of 
the  men  who  are  fighting  in  the  Great  War, — the 
happenings,  the  emotions,  the  give  and  take,  the 
tragedy  and  the  comedy  of  soldiering. 


"  I  have  read  Robert  Service's  '  Rhymes 
of  a  Red  Cross  Man '  —  and  all  the 
verses  written  on  the  war  —  but  in 
my  opinion  '  Buddy's  Blighty,'  by 
Jack  Turner,  is  the  best  thing  yet 
written  —  because  it's  the  truth." 
Private  Harold  R.  Peat 


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The  Welfare  Series 


The  Field  of  Social  Service 

Edited  by  PHILIP  DAVIS,  in  collaboration  with  Maida  Herman 

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Street-Land 

By  PHILIP  DAVIS,  assisted  by  Grace  Kroll 

What  shall  we  do  with  the  11,000,000  children  of  the  city 
streets  ?  A  question  of  great  national  significance  an- 
swered by  an  expert. 

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Consumption 

By  JOHN  B.  H AWES,  2d.  M.D. 

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One  More  Chance 

An  Experiment  in  Human  Salvage 

By  LEWIS  E.  MacBRAYNE  and  JAMES  P.  RAMSAY 

Human'documents  from  the  experiences  of  a  Massachusetts 
probation  officer  in  the  application  of  the  probation  system 
to  the  problems  of  men  and  women  who  without  it  would 
have  been  permanently  lost  to  useful  citizenship. 

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42125 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000671  173     3 


